


An Education

by Sea-Glass (PJ_Marvell)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, In which no one goes to any classes, M/M, RQ Big Bang 2019, University AU, Who knows how they get any work done not me, and instead have a lot of interpersonal drama all over the campus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 08:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PJ_Marvell/pseuds/Sea-Glass
Summary: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan is absolutely certain that this year, at this university, is the one that's finally going to work out.  Fine, he's lying to everyone about his past and living in a small student house with a group of people who can't ever quite make up their minds whether they love or hate each other, but he's still sure it'll all work out.  Somehow.Meanwhile, across campus, Tjelvar Stornsnasson is regretting his life choices - specifically, the ones that led him to agree to tutor both Bertie MacGuffingham and Edward Keystone.  But getting paid means his students have to pass, so the only way out is through.  Provided he doesn't murder one of them first.





	1. Historical Revisionism

**Author's Note:**

> Against all seeming odds, I finished a fic for the Rusty Quill Big Bang 2019! Even better, it's illustrated by the quite spectacular TheLysdom! You can find her work at the end of Chapters 1, 3, 4, 6 and 9, and also at her twitter at https://twitter.com/theLysdom. She's amazingly talented and you should definitely check her out. I also personally want to thank her - she's been this fic's first reader and best cheerleader! I probably could have done it without her, but it wouldn't have been half so much fun.

“But what I don’t get, right, is why every table in the place is broken,” said a voice, echoing down the corridor from what was likely to be the kitchen, if that was the sound of crockery rattling that Hamid could hear.

Hamid stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him, suddenly nervous. This wasn’t the way he had been expecting things to go.

Well, no. This wasn’t the way Bertie had _ assured him _ it would go. There was a difference.

The past summer had given Hamid a lot to deal with, including the prospect of finding a place to live off-campus about three months later than everyone else at his new university and in a town he didn’t know. Therefore, when Bertie had dropped by his apartment in London and suggested Hamid take the fourth and final bedroom in the student house he’d arranged, Hamid jumped at the chance to have one less thing to fret about. The fact that Bertie, as unacademic a man as Hamid had ever met, was suddenly a postgraduate student went unaddressed. Bertie would be a familiar face in the middle of a lot of change, and his description of Hamid’s proposed rooms sounded wonderful.

Hamid would be lying if he said that he hadn’t, in the course of his childhood and adolescence, become used to a certain standard of living. It wasn’t snobbishness, he insisted, it was just that a certain level of material comfort was important for his general wellbeing. Self-care was important, after all, and Bertie’s offer of luxurious, spacious and beautiful rooms in a shared house close to campus soared above every one of Hamid’s sky-high standards.

So Hamid was somewhat..._ perturbed _ when it turned out his promised palace was actually a red-brick, bay-windowed house in the middle of a long terraced street. Hamid would have assumed he’d got the wrong place, only his key had fit in the door.

There was no sign of a doorman, or a concierge. Or _ Bertie _.

Instead, there was a plain, bright hallway, with one room leading off it, a staircase in front of him and a corridor leading between the two, down which conversation and the clatter of utensils echoed.

“Hello?” called Hamid, his voice wavering a little.

“Alright?” replied another, accented one.

_ Well then, _ thought Hamid. _ No way back now _.

Hamid followed the voice down the corridor to where it opened up into a small, merrily-tiled kitchen. It was clean, lit attractively by the sun through the large back windows and currently covered by an array of boxes, bags and suitcases. Covered, with the notable exception of the kitchen table, which on closer inspection turned out to have only three legs and an extremely precarious balance.

Standing among it all were two people; one a dwarf wielding a ladle, a welcoming expression on the bits of face visible past wild blonde hair and an impressive full suite of braided facial hair. The other was a slight, pale young woman in black holding a toaster and trailing its plug along the floor.

“Alright?” said the dwarf, holding out the hand that didn’t hold the ladle. “Zolf Smith. You’d be Hamid?”

“Hamid Saleh Haroun Al-Tahan, pleased to meet you,” Hamid shook his hand sincerely. “I think I’m going to be your new roommate?” Hamid didn’t mean for the statement to be a question, but it pitched up into one anyway.

“That’s what Bertie said, anyway,” said Zolf. “This is Sasha, by the way,” he waved a hand at the young woman.

“Hey,” she said, looking at the toaster at her hands then back to Hamid’s outstretched one and shrugging awkwardly.

“It’s lovely to meet you too!” said Hamid, and in his nervousness, meant it. “What’s your second name?”

“Who’s asking and why do you need to know?” Sasha’s weight shifted slightly backwards. Her stance was tense, poised; she held the toaster as though it was a weapon. For a moment Hamid wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t.

“Um, I don’t,” Hamid squeaked. “I-I-I was just being polite.”

“Oh,” said Sasha, relaxing although her face remained sceptical. “All right then.”

There followed an awkward silence, in which Hamid’s anxious smile began to wilt at the corners.

“So,” said Zolf, as the moment broke and Sasha went back to distributing various bits of kitchenware about the place. “Bertie said you were an old friend of his?”

“Oh - er - yes, we met at school,” replied Hamid. “How do you know Bertie?”

“Wouldn’t say I did, really.” Zolf scratched the back of his head. “Seen him about campus, though. Sort of guy that’s hard to miss. No, Sasha and me, we answered an ad in the student paper looking for housemates. It made sense for me, I’m older than most folk around here and it makes me feel less ancient, and Sasha…”

“...likes her own space,” came her voice from within the fridge, as she apparently rooted around for lunch.

“Oh, I completely understand, it’s nice to have a bit of independence!” said Hamid. _ Not that you know what that’s like _, added a snide internal voice.

“Yeah. How about you?” asked Zolf. “Not that I know everyone on campus but I don’t recall seeing you about last year.”

Hamid almost froze - almost.

“Oh, I’m a second-year transfer student,” he replied sunnily. “Moved because I like the program better here. They’ve got a really great abjuration department, you know? Just wasn’t learning what I wanted to.”

“Oh right? Wizardry then? That’ll be interesting,” Zolf smiled, seemingly honest and genuine and not a bit like he’d just noticed his new roommate tell an enormous lie.

“Oh yes! It’s really fascinating! Difficult, but I think I’m getting the hang of it now.” Hamid felt himself unclench, now the really tricky fibs had been navigated.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun this year. Maybe they’ll let you at the really explosive spells this term, eh?” Zolf grinned. Hamid floundered, but fortunately Zolf didn’t seem to expect an answer.

“Come on then, I’ll show you to your room.” Zolf walked past, beckoning Hamid to follow him. “Do you want me to carry anything?” Zolf asked, before catching sight of Hamid’s valise, his umbrella and his coat, and frowning slightly.

“Er, no, I think I’ve got it.” Hamid grabbed his things and started up the stairs. “Up here is it?”

“Yeah - Bertie’s got the ground floor room with the en suite and Sasha’s got the attic.” Zolf followed him, still frowning slightly. “I took the back room and gave you the front, if that’s alright?”

Hamid opened the door indicated and stepped in, half-planning to claim a headache and shut the door on Zolf’s curious and concerned expression. But he stepped into the bedroom and stopped.

“Oh!” It wasn’t a large room, but there was a loveseat built into the bay window and the floorboards were painted a sea-mist grey. The furniture was a little worn, but the enormous overstuffed armchair wedged into the alcove by the wardrobe became one of Hamid’s favourite things the moment he saw it.

“We can swap, if you don’t like it,” said Zolf from the doorway.

“No! No, it’s lovely!” Hamid turned in place, taking it all in. It needed a dust and he’d order some rugs and pillows once he settled in, but between the sash windows and the high corniced ceilings it was a light and airy little nest.

“All right then,” Zolf was smiling again. “Well, I’ll, er, let you get settled in. Come and find me and Sasha once you’re done, we’ll get the kettle on. Once we’ve found it, anyway.”

Hamid listened to Zolf retreat down the stairs and flopped backwards onto the bed. That had been...well, not unexpected, but really Hamid hadn’t thought he’d have to deploy his entire cover story all at once. It had held, he thought, at least until Zolf spotted his complete lack of luggage. Well, one to chalk up to experience. He could always say he liked to travel light. _ Although if you’re going to keep that lie up, you’d better not ever go on holiday with them _.

Hamid sat up, moving to kick off his shoes and find his slippers. He could unpack his bag later - for now he wanted tea and company. Perhaps he’d help Zolf and Sasha unpack their kitchen things, if only to gauge what one was meant to have in a kitchen. It wasn’t an environment Hamid had ever found himself in before. Well, not if you counted RAG week last year when he was out with Bertie, but then they were hardly cooking then.

Hamid stopped, and then dug around in his coat pocket for his phone. He opened the memo app and tapped a hasty message to remind him to inform Bertie they were now school friends and not to mention Oxford. Last thing he needed was for Bertie to start telling some story about the time they’d stolen punts from King’s, or whatever.

Speaking of, where _ was _ Bertie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sasha + toaster is my absolute fav.


	2. Zoology

Tjelvar Stornsnasson was not getting paid enough for this.

One aristocratic idiot would have been fine. Oh, granted, Tjevlar had thought Edward Keystone a chore when first their tutoring sessions had started. Edward was slow, not particularly focused and prone to sudden forgetfulness when he was asked a question. It was a difficult environment to be a tutor in, especially when your final payday depended on your student’s essay marks. Tjelvar had mildly dreaded his first few weeks of lessons, wondering just how much frustration he’d have to tamp down this time and how big the resultant headache would be.

Oh, how he missed those days now.

“But what I don’t get,” said Edward, tilting his head in confusion at the textbook. “Is how they found elephants in the Alps. I didn’t think you got elephants in France.”

“Well, Eddie,” replied Bertrand MacGuffingham, Esq, Elephant Expert and Current Pain In Tjelvar’s Arse, slinging an arm over the back of Edward’s chair. “The thing you have to understand, see, is the reason elephants have four feet. Do you know why that is?”

“I don’t think so.” Edward glanced at Tjelvar, then back to Bertie.

“It’s because in the animal kingdom, six inches just doesn’t cut it,” replied Bertie.

_ Oh gods _ , thought Tjelvar, briefly covering his eyes with one hand.

“I don’t think that answers my question,” said Edward, staring in deeper confusion down at his book.

It turned out the only thing worse than one dim toff to tutor were two dim toffs to tutor. One of whom was trying his absolute damndest to get into the other one’s pants.

Tjelvar knew he was on dubious ethical ground here. He’d known what Bertie’s motivations were when he’d taken him on as a second student; no one had ever said the words, but Tjelvar wasn’t stupid. Even if he had been, Tjelvar would have needed to be blind and quite probably deaf to miss all the subsequent flirting.

What Tjelvar  _ was _ , was poor. The grant for his Masters about covered his tuition and his shifts at the café paid his rent, which left him in the position of needing another income stream if he was going to live off anything more appetising than jacket potatoes and oatmeal. Tutoring Edward had allowed him not to worry; taking Bertie’s money was finally allowing him a little luxury. It was a poor justification for being complicit in what was essentially bribery, especially a bribe aimed at allowing Bertie free reign to flirt with Edward. If Tjelvar could take any comfort, it was in the fact that every one of Bertie’s advances had flown right over Edward’s beautiful, empty head.

“Surely,” said Edward slowly, as though the thought was coming from a great distance. “Surely if elephants didn’t have four feet, they’d fall over?”

“Ah - yes,” replied Bertie. “That must be it.”

Six months of porridge was starting to sound appealing.

“To answer your original question, Eddie,” said Tjelvar, watching Bertie open his mouth again and speaking before he could make some godsawful pun about  _ trunks _ . “Hannibal didn’t  _ find _ elephants in the Alps - current wisdom is that they had been brought from northern Africa to the Carthaginian colonies on the Ibearian peninsula some time before Hannibal began his march.”

“Oh,” Edward blinked. “I see, I think.”

Tjelvar waited a moment to see if there would be any further questions and subsequent rejoinder. Both of his students stayed quiet.

“All right, so if we return to the topic of today’s lesson, we were discussing Hannibal’s strategic alliances with the various cities and tribes along his route to Rome. Scholarly convention puts the start of the Second Punic War here, at the siege of Saguntum.” Tjelvar pointed out the small spot in southeast Spain. 

Edward dutifully bent his head to look; Bertie leaned in, waiting until Tjelvar had begun speaking of Saguntum’s alliance with Rome before taking a deep sniff of Edward’s hair. Tjelvar considered hitting him with the atlas.

The lesson continued, as did (to Tjelvar’s dismay) the baffled frown on Edward’s forehead. They were getting nowhere and Bertie wasn’t helping. His favourite ruse was to “forget” his books and share Edward’s, taking every opportunity to lean into Edward’s space. Tjelvar had once watched him spend twenty minutes trying to surreptitiously hold Edward’s hand. However, he’d made the tactical error of trying to hold Edward’s writing hand and kept getting avoided in favour of a half-chewed biro.

“Bertie,” said Tjelvar, when at long last the tutorial had come to an end and the three of them packed their things to leave. “Could I have a word? See you, Edward.”

Edward gave them a wave and wandered towards the library entrance. Tjelvar had to call Bertie’s name a couple of times before he could be distracted from the sight of Edward walking away.

“Bertie, you really have to tone it down,” said Tjelvar, keeping his voice as conciliatory as he could manage. “The point of these tutorials is to  _ learn things _ and I can’t have you taking up all of Edward’s attention.”

“All of his attention, you think?” Bertie’s eyes lit up.

“ _ Bertie _ .”

“All right, all right, I won’t interfere with your passing of academic wisdom.” Bertie patted Tjelvar on the shoulder and turned to go.

“If you keep it up,” called Tjelvar, allowing some of his frustration to seep into his voice. “I will have to kick you from the sessions entirely.”

Bertie stopped, and the expression of good humour on his face when he turned seemed to be far too stiff to be genuine. Tjelvar allowed himself a little spiteful satisfaction.

“Well, there’s no need for that! I gave my word, after all!” Bertie’s smile was less an expression of mirth than a display of his teeth. “You’ll have no more, ah, trouble from me.”

“Thank you, Bertie.”

“Not at all, not at all. In fact,” Bertie dug theatrically in his back pocket and came up with a few folded banknotes. “You’ve reminded me - I still owe a little money for this week’s session.”

It was possibly the least convincing lie Tjelvar had ever heard. About the only way it could have got any more suggestive was if Bertie had actually nodded and winked as he offered the bribe. Tjelvar looked from Bertie to the notes in his hand. At least one of them was a twenty.

“Much obliged, Bertie,” said Tjelvar, taking it and tucking it into his own shirt pocket.

“Don’t mention it, old chap!” Bertie clapped Tjelvar on the back and left, leaving Tjelvar wondering which he hated more, the gleam of victory in Bertie’s eyes or his own moral failing.

_ Oh well _ , thought Tjelvar, gathering his books.  _ At least I can afford to be vaguely guilty on a full stomach _ .


	3. Organic Chemistry

Hamid stuck his head out of the kitchen door for the third time. Listened hard. No, still silent. There was definitely no one but him home.

Hamid pushed the kitchen door gently to, drew a deep breath and put on his game face. Also, a frilly apron. It was time to _ cook _.

The clean, worn sideboard was covered in a variety of implements and tools, all of which Hamid was assured by the assistant at the cookware shop were absolutely vital to any kitchen in which the preparation of good food was to take place. Now if only Hamid could work out which ones were best to use in the scrambling of an egg.

Frustration boiled in Hamid’s throat; he tamped it down and approached the countertop critically. All right, he had butter, milk and eggs; he had a saucepan, a spoon with holes in, an odd bulbous collection of wires and a neatly-bound bundle of wooden spoons. Most importantly, he had an empty house, so no one was here to witness this.

Hamid regarded the eggs critically. Logically, they should no longer be in their shells. So, time to crack them. Hamid delicately tapped one egg on the rim of the saucepan. Nothing happened. Hamid frowned - he’d thought egg shells were supposed to be delicate. Best to try a little more force…

A loud crack, and Hamid looked down to watch albumen slide down the paisley pattern of his new apron. Too much pressure, then.

A little more trial and error found Hamid peering down at a saucepan containing three cracked eggs. Also a couple of flecks of eggshell, but he was feeling okay about that. This was progress, certainly. The eggs were in the saucepan, ready to be scrambled. Hamid nodded once to himself, before his shoulders sagged. This was the flaw in his plan, certainly.

The kitchen wasn’t somewhere Hamid tended to inhabit. Never, as far as he could remember, had he entered one to use the room for its intended purpose. It was something of a daunting prospect - food had, until now, been the sole preserve of servants. Oh, logically Hamid knew that food made a journey from farm via kitchen to plate, but it wasn’t a set of logistics Hamid ever thought he’d have to involve himself in.

But, Hamid reminded himself, that was all going to change now. He was Making His Own Way. Becoming His Own Person. He’d promised himself independence and he intended to keep that promise. It was just that he’d not realised his great coming of age would have to include gas hobs and laundry detergent. At least he could Prestidigitate his clothes clean.

Hamid sighed, finally admitting that perhaps the knowledge of how to cook eggs wasn’t stored somewhere in the cultural aether, waiting to inspire any hungry student, and dug out his phone. It was a sleek, shiny thing - the latest model from Einstein, a gift from his brother the last time he’d been home in Cairo. Hamid glanced up guiltily, checked the kitchen was still empty, and opened Eureka!Search.

He was halfway through typing “how to scramble eggs” when Sasha asked “what are you doing?”

“Sasha!” squeaked Hamid, wobbling on the stool he’d propped in front of the stove and almost dropping his phone in the saucepan. “I - I didn’t hear you come in!”

Sasha shrugged, leaning her hip against the countertop. “Looked like you was concentrating.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m just...making dinner,” said Hamid, gesturing redundantly at the evidence of Cookery. Sasha nodded again and made no move to engage in conversation or leave. Hamid smiled weakly, resisting the urge to look down at his phone. He lasted about ten seconds. “All right, I’m making scrambled eggs and I don’t know how.”

“You don’t?” asked Sasha, and the small smile Hamid got might have been the first one he’d seen from her. She wandered over, hands firmly in her pocket. “Explains why you’ve put the eggs in before the butter, then.”

“Oh - so, butter first?” Hamid hunted around for a bowl to pour the eggs in. As it was, it was milk first (whisked in with the egg) then warming the butter. Then, a vital moment in which _ not _ to stir, while the eggs set under Sasha’s watchful eye. Hamid wanted to take notes, but Sasha drew in a sharp breath when Hamid looked like letting go of the wooden spoon and so he stayed where he was.

“There - you’ll want to turn them now.” Sasha looked steadily at Hamid as he busied himself with the wooden spoon. “Where did you come from that you got to second year without knowing how to scramble an egg?”

Hamid flushed - stuttered - and utterly failed to come up with an answer. His panicked glance caught Sasha’s knowing one and she held up a hand.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me,” she grinned. “Just, like, making an observation. You get to be all mysterious, if you want.”

“Oh, it’s not that I want to be -” began Hamid.

“Nah, it’s alright, Hamid, I get it. I mean, I got the scholarship to come here in reform school, so it’s not like I go around telling people where I come from either.”

“Reform school?” asked Hamid, momentarily wondering if it was some radical form of finishing school, before the penny fully dropped. “Oh! You mean like - like - prison?”

“Yeah,” said Sasha carefully. “Somewhere like that.”

“How long were you there? Was it awful?” Hamid had flashes of Victorian-style workhouses, of grime and treadmills and orphans with improbably large eyes.

“A little while,” replied Sasha, as the implication that he was rooming with a convicted criminal dropped into Hamid’s head like a stone into a tin bucket. Sasha wasn’t old, so couldn’t have served a long sentence, but they were more lenient on younger people, weren’t they? What if she was a murderer? Was Hamid safe? Oh gods, what if - 

Hamid looked up into Sasha’s suddenly blank, closed expression and felt shame prick at his cheeks. The small smiles and the slight slip of the tension of her shoulders were gone now, and the warmth in the kitchen air had iced.

“I was a thief,” replied Sasha quietly. “Got caught and did my time.”

“Sasha, I didn’t mean...” Hamid began, hesitantly.

“Yeah, you did,” she replied, crossing her arms across her chest and turning to go. “Enjoy your eggs.”

“I - I’ll make you some!” Hamid wasn’t sure why that had been the thing he blurted, but it did get Sasha to stop. “I’m sorry Sasha, I shouldn’t have said any of that, it was so rude of me. Let me make you dinner? Please?”

Sasha gave him a long sideways look. Hamid gave her a sheepish curtsey with the frilly paisley apron. Sasha shrugged, a smile skirting the sides of her lips, and turned back.

“All right, but I want a different batch of eggs,” she said. “You’ve let those ones burn.”

In the end, they made three different types of eggs, two different types of toast and stewed some mushrooms, heaping their plates high enough that even Hamid wondered if he’d be able to finish his meal, and had discovered that they had very little in common.

Except, as it happened, a love for food. It had started with the eggs and then expanded out into fond memories of dinners past. In a spirit of conviviality, Hamid promised to take Sasha to try caviar and oysters one day. Sasha agreed on the condition that Hamid try her friend’s famous eel quiche. Hamid waxed lyrical on black truffles in Avignon; Sasha proposed Brick Lane for roti and daal. They planned such travels as wouldn’t even fit in a reading week as they crunched through egg and bread and mushroom at their cosy kitchen table and Hamid felt his heart ease.

Sasha almost had to roll him up the stairs later as they both made plans to turn in. She wasn’t much better - she almost had a halfling’s appetite and Hamid could swear her belly stuck out a little - and it was with the heavy contentment of the truly well-fed that Hamid curled up under his blankets that evening.

There was a beat of warm, comfy silence.

Hamid slipped as noiselessly as possible out of bed and crept over to his door. He muttered a locking spell, as quietly as he was able, and hoped the little twinkle of magic wasn’t visible from outside the door.

It wasn’t an insult to Sasha, he told himself as he slipped for a second time beneath the covers. It was just a sensible precaution to take when there were thieves about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at Hamid's frilly apron! :heart:
> 
> Go check out more at https://twitter.com/theLysdom


	4. Postcolonialism

“Now, Edward, here is a _ true _ treasure! It’s the Stole of Nefertiti, yes, found by my ancestor centuries ago. Now, Old Sir Humphrey was quite the adventurer, what! In fact, I think that he and I had quite a lot in common; bravery, chivalry, and of course we were both _ very _ good-looking…”

One of Bertie’s arms was around Edward’s shoulders, the other hand gesticulating grandly at the artefacts on display. Tjelvar, having been forgotten some time ago, was pointedly looking up the definition of “colonialism” on his phone and seething.

Tjelvar had hoped that taking Edward to the British Museum would bring history to life for him in a way the textbooks couldn’t. He’d been reading about learning styles and had formulated a theory on how to crack Edward’s. Of course, he’d never now get to find out if he was right because where Edward went, Bertie had to go. And it turned out that Bertie’s family had made a contribution or two to the museum.

_ Enough to fill up a whole wing _ , thought Tjelvar sourly, glaring at the inscription above the door. _ The MacGuffingham Wing - Ancient History _ . Tjelvar didn’t roll his eyes after he’d read it - he’d done it too many times already today and was feeling the strain. It wasn’t even a good collection. If perhaps the MacGuffinghams had dedicated generations to the study of something, Tjelvar might feel better about this. Hell, if they’d picked a theme other than _ look at this shiny expensive thing I found _ it would have been easier to bear. 

As it was, the entire wing exuded nothing but a thick fog of privilege and power, a material representation of the steamy marsh of aristocracy and entitlement that had birthed MacGuffingham after MacGuffingham, a long line of posh shambling swamp monsters, spewing their braying arrogance on the rest of the world like slime. This in turn might have been something less than insufferable if Bertie had gone and be-monstered someone else instead of insisting on dragging Tjelvar and Edward back into the weeds with him to marinate in the murky water of this _ ridiculous _ collection.

Tjelvar blinked, then abandoned the now-overwrought metaphor. The point was, this was meant to be an educational trip to help Edward with an upcoming assignment and instead they’d spent an entire hour learning in detail about the glories of House MacGuffingham. Tjelvar was fuming and frustrated, Edward baffled and polite. Bertie was having the time of his life.

“Master Bertrand?” A call across the gallery interrupted Bertie mid-flow about the adventures of his father in Darkest Dundee and Tjelvar looked up to see a short, fussy woman who had “curator” written in every line of her dress and manner.

“Ah, Mrs Syddons! How lovely to see you! Have you met Edward Windsor?”

“Ah, no, I haven’t had the pleasure,” Mrs Syddons shook Edward’s hand effusively. “But any friend of the MacGuffinghams is a friend of the museum.”

“Well, Edward and I are classmates, really, very good friends, wouldn’t you say, Ed?”

“Um, I don’t…”

“Splendid! I was just explaining to Edward just how _ vital _ the MacGuffinghams have been to the museum over the years.”

Tjelvar did roll his eyes then, and decided to turn his back on the proceedings. He looked dispassionately across several centuries of looted gold and gems before ending up by a small and unregarded display in the corner. It was the contents of a tomb from the Egyptian Middle Kingdom, pushed to one side and forgotten because it hadn’t contained a pharaoh and his subsequent gold. The funerary texts were in good condition, and Tjelvar amused himself by trying to remember his first year hieroglyphics class and translating them.

“The Book of the Dead?” said Edward’s voice from just behind his shoulder. “Isn’t that, like, some sort of cursed thing?”

Tjelvar turned; Bertie was still being near-worshipped by the curator and Edward had apparently got bored enough of it to come and see what Tjelvar was looking at.

“Ha, no, although Hollywood does keep trying to convince us otherwise.” Tjelvar beckoned Edward over to a particular scroll. “A more accurate translation is _ The Book of Emerging Out Into the Light _ \- it’s meant to be a list of spells to help a person’s soul make its journey through the underworld.”

“Like - to the astral plane?” Edward’s eyes were still scanning the faded hieroglyphs.

“Yes - the Egyptians believed you first had to traverse Duat, or the underworld, before you could make it to the afterlife. Here, for instance -” Tjelvar scooted Edward further down the case. “This is one of the best known spells, the Weighing of the Heart. It’s a long story, but to sum up, the spell is meant to aid you when the gods weighed your heart against the feather of Ma’at. If the scales were balanced, you were admitted to the afterlife. If they weren’t, your heart was devoured by Ammut - that’s her, there.”

“She looks fluffy,” said Edward, squinting down at the vignette on the papyrus.

“Well - yes, but she’s also a powerful goddess capable of assigning you to permanent oblivion if you’re deemed unworthy.”

“Still fluffy,” Edward looked at him and smiled when Tjelvar laughed. “What’s so special about the feather?”

Tjelvar expected explaining to Edward the complicated, expansive and still imperfectly-understood concept of Ma’at and how a person’s sins could be weighed against it would be difficult and he wasn’t wrong. What did surprise him was how easily he could hold Edward’s attention, even through the difficult bits. There was a lot of back-tracking and re-working sentences to fit them into the currently-available space in Edward’s head, but slowly Tjelvar began to hope that he had, finally, worked out how to tutor Edward.

“That’s amazing,” said Edward, eventually. “And the Egyptians had to memorise all that? I don’t know how they managed to learn all this stuff, they must have been dead clever.”

“Well, learning gets a certain urgency when you think your immortal life might depend on it. You should see the coffins they built. In fact,” said Tjelvar, glancing over his shoulder to see Bertie still in deep, and now hushed, conversation with the curator. “Why don’t we go and see them? It looks like Bertie’s busy - let’s leave him to it.”

“Are you sure he won’t mind?” asked Edward, and even Tjelvar could tell that his heart wasn’t really in the objection.

“Some of the coffins are painted gold.” 

“Really? _ Wicked! _”

*

The hours that followed Tjelvar’s escape from the MacGuffingham Wing were...well, _ nice _ . Tjelvar was frankly surprised, but Edward was an amazing person to visit a museum with. His knowledge of history ranged from _ appalling _ to _ entirely non-existent _ , which meant that almost every item in the display cases needed to have their entire historical contexts explained, which was _ exhausting _.

But...Edward was also completely without preconceptions and enthusiastic about everything and watching wonder break on his face every time Tjelvar pointed him at some great historical artefact was rejuvenating. Tjelvar got to tell the story of Egypt’s Middle Kingdom, of the battle of Thermopylae, of Hannibal’s march across the Alps and the fall of Rome, and Edward listened to all of them like they were the greatest tale ever told. Which, as far as Tjelvar was concerned, history was. But it was gratifying to look at Edward’s marvelling face and be reminded of the fact.

It was also pleasing to have Edward’s attention completely focussed on him. It was hot, slightly guilty feeling that Tjelvar was rationalising as a spike of pride that someone had spent two hours just listening to him talk about history. And not just someone, but _ Edward _, who for the first few lessons seemed to forget everything Tjelvar had said the moment he’d finished speaking. Tjelvar felt himself answering Edward’s fascinated smiles with his own, almost fond. Between Edward’s slow progress and his suitor, this tutoring job had taken far more effort and generated far more headaches than Tjelvar had been prepared for. But watching Edward look between two-thousand year old statues of Tanit and him, eyes wide in wonder as Tjelvar told him how Hannibal himself may have sent up a prayer to the goddess, made up for it. After four years of never having a moment between his studies and his work, a few moments of vicarious rediscovery of history felt good.

They eventually made their way back to the Museum’s central courtyard and gift shop and Edward immediately dived into the postcard racks, trying to find postcards of everything “cool” he’d seen. Tjelvar let him wander off, losing himself by flicking through the bookshelves. In the back of his mind he knew there were trains to catch, seminars to prepare for and an early-morning barista shift looming. Tjelvar caught sight of Edward, now utterly distracted by a small onyx figurine of Anubis, and resolved not to hurry.

“_ Stornsnasson. _” Reality reasserted itself through the voice of Bertie MacGuffingham, hissed directly into his ear. Tjelvar flinched, managed not to jump, then turned to glare at Bertie.

“Was that truly necessary?” Tjelvar rubbed his ear and scowled.

“Had a pleasant afternoon at the museum, have we?” Bertie’s expression and tone were ones of ill-suppressed rage.

“Yes, as it goes,” Tjelvar shrugged, feigning nonchalance and turning back to the book he’d been skimming. “How was your hobnobbing with the curator?”

“Fine, fine. Must keep up the familial obligations, wouldn’t do to let something like that slip, wouldn’t be fitting to the stature of House MacGuffingham, you know?” Bertie sniffed. “Well, of course _ you _wouldn’t, but there we are.”

“...quite,” replied Tjelvar, after mentally counting to a large and unspecified number. “Well, I think I achieved everything I set out to do with the trip - are you ready to head back to the station?”

“Well, see, I didn’t get what I wanted done. Because I was right in the middle of it when you _ wandered off with Edward _,” Bertie hissed, venom underneath each syllable.

Tjevlar shot a look over the gift shop. Edward seemed utterly oblivious both of them. “My job is to get Edward a passing grade this year,” Tjelvar snapped back at Bertie.

“That’s what his father is paying you for, certainly,” Bertie’s smile barely reached his cheeks, let alone his eyes. “Remember you’ve got two patrons these days.”

“Fine, fine, apologies for abandoning you,” muttered Tjelvar, breaking eye contact first and turning irritably back to the books.

“Remember what you’re being paid for, Stornsnasson.” Bertie’s hand tightened around his elbow, just briefly, before he let go and walked towards Edward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, Ed's poor face! The things we put that poor boy through...
> 
> More once again at https://twitter.com/theLysdom


	5. Comparative Ethics

“If you ask me,” Zolf said, putting his empty pint glass back on the table with a thump. “Expelling them was too good for them.”

If you’d asked Hamid when he was a teenager, he wouldn’t have said that the greatest philosophical debate of his life would have taken place around a woodworm-riddled table varnished with the ghosts of several years of spilled beer. But here they were.

“ _ Too good for them _ ?” Hamid snorted, cupping his gin and tonic between his hands. “Zolf, they broke university rules, they’re not some sort of...of  _ monsters _ .”

It was late on a Wednesday night and the talk of the campus that week had been of three first-year Wizardry students expelled for running alchemical experiments in their halls. Everyone on their corridor and on several adjacent ones had been evacuated and were still not allowed back. No one could say for sure exactly what the ex-students had been doing, but the police manning the cordons around the area were grim-faced and inclined to jump at loud noises.

“They could have killed people, Hamid!” Zolf’s beer foamed on his moustache. “Whatever was going on in that room has got everyone from the Vice-Chancellor on down having kittens, it’s dangerous! If they’d been caught doing this in some private house, they’d have been down the jail by now and good riddance!”

“But they didn’t  _ mean _ to hurt anyone!” Hamid was beginning to think he needed another drink, never mind that his current one was still half full. “You can’t just condemn someone for the rest of their life because of a mistake!”

“Yeah, and who’s word to we have for that? Just theirs, and they’re probably very keen to put themselves in the best possible light. Besides which,” Zolf took another swig of beer. “What if it was just as innocent as they claim? Whatever they were doing could still have badly hurt everyone around them. If you’ve killed everyone on your corridor, does it matter if you meant it or not?”

“Of course it does!” Hamid’s voice went high-pitched enough that a couple of people on the surrounding tables looked around at him. “A mistake, even if...if it’s tragic can’t be as bad as deliberately murdering someone, can it? That’s...not fair!”

“And is it fair if your idiot flatmate decides she’s going to brew poison in her kitchen sink and kills you? She didn’t mean to do it, but you’re still dead.” Zolf raised an eyebrow at him over the table. “The problem with your outlook is that you think the world can be fair. It’s not.”

“I  _ know _ that,” snapped Hamid, before taking a calming breath. “But I don’t think you’re being reasonable by not taking intention into account. Or - or giving people a second chance if they made a mistake!”

“You’re making it sound like they were caught cheating on an exam,” said Zolf, and the look he gave Hamid then sent a hot shiver up the back of his neck. “You’re almost taking this personal. D’you know them?”

“No, no, it’s not like that,” Hamid traced the condensation ring his glass had left to avoid looking back at Zolf. “I just....I’ve done stupid things in the past, haven’t you? I don’t think we should be so fast to - to condemn people for doing the same thing.”

“You’re right,” said Zolf, his tone gentle and his expression too schooled for Hamid to think for a moment he was being agreed with. “I have made mistakes. And one of the things you learn from mistakes is that they come with  _ consequences _ .”

“I suppose,” said Hamid. He didn’t want to feel dejected - Zolf couldn’t have known how personal this really was to him. Just like Zolf couldn’t have known how much Hamid had wanted this conversation to lead to another one, about another university and the power bad friends could have on a formerly good judgement.

Hamid had so wanted to tell Zolf about his expulsion from Oxford. There was something about his housemate that made him easy to talk to. It wasn’t his demeanour - in his own way, he was almost as hard to have a conversation with as Sasha. But the weight of the secret was weighing so heavy on Hamid and of everyone he’d met, he’d thought maybe Zolf would help him carry it.

Or perhaps he’d just tell Hamid that expulsion had been too good for him, too.

“I’m not saying they’re as bad as murderers,” Zolf said, his tone still conciliatory. “But whatever else they did, they had a terminal failing to think about anyone else while they were doing it.”

Hamid’s shoulders slumped further. He opened his mouth to reply and a full glass was dropped in front of him.

“That’s an overrated approach, in my experience.” Bertie slid into the spare seat, pushing a new pint toward Zolf.

“What?” asked Zolf, the softness of his tone flattening.

“Thinking about other people. Other people are mostly oiks,” Bertie took a long drink of an obscenely large measure of whiskey.

“Your personal philosophies notwithstanding,” said Zolf, taking a sip of his beer with an expression that suggested it had soured. “Hamid and I were actually talking about justice.”

“Oh yes? Any particular context, or simply justice in the grand scheme of things?”

“We were talking about those students who got expelled, Bertie.” Hamid remained staring moodily at the limp slice of cucumber in his glass.

“Ah! Terrible business, that. Could have wiped out half the heirs to the great estates in England, what?”

“Well, yes," Zolf frowned. "Killing the residents of an entire student block is probably bad no matter who their families were.”

“Probably, probably!" Bertie replied, cheerfully condescending. "But no one died and all’s well!”

“Yes, but they  _ could have _ .” Zolf was glaring straight at Bertie, his argument with Hamid temporarily forgotten.

“No need to besmirch the names of a few good people because of a mistake," Bertie said, apparently blithely ignorant of Zolf's irritation. "The Yule parties at the country club are going to be awkward enough as it is.”

“Bertie, you can’t just judge people by how posh their families are.”

“Of course I can." Bertie peered between Zolf and Hamid. "What else is there?”

Zolf glowered down at his beer and Hamid fancied he was assessing its worth as a beverage versus a weapon to soak Bertie with. Hamid wasn’t completely sure he blamed Zolf and that was an unpleasant feeling. On the one hand, Bertie was the only person there who knew the full story about why Hamid left Oxford and Bertie had never judged him for it - Bertie even went so far as to approve of Hamid’s father’s solution to the...problem. Hamid was on safe ground with Bertie.

On the other hand...well, Hamid was fairly sure Bertie would defend him and Sasha and even Zolf, at a push, from any sort of external attack. But beyond that, Hamid had never seen Bertie betray any sort of concern for his fellow beings and for the first time in his life, that was making him uncomfortable. Maybe not uncomfy enough to admit that Zolf was right and that money didn’t cover a multitude of sins, but.

It was an distressing train of thought on what was meant to be a casual drink after a seminar and besides which, there was no arguing with Bertie when he’d made up his mind. He’d stand beneath the shining sun and bellow that the sky was green. Hamid changed the subject.

“Zolf, you like Harrison Campbell’s books, right?” Hamid said, brightly.

“Er, yeah, why?” Zolf blinked.

“Well, I was chatting to someone after a lecture the other day, and it looks like the creative writing society is inviting him in for a talk, I thought we might go.” Hamid committed to his cheeriness in the hope that by sheer force of positivity he could change the mood of the table.

“What, really?” Sullenness evaporated from Zolf like dew off grass on a summer morning. “That would be amazing, I’d love to -” Zolf coughed and took another sip of his beer. “I mean, er, yeah, sounds like a good time.”

Hamid grinned as the small patches of Zolf’s cheek visible over the top of the beard went slightly pink.

“Harrison Campbell, the writer fellow?” asked Bertie, immediately casting a shadow over the conversation. “I think I met the fellow once - writes those terribly good romance things, doesn’t he?”

“You’ve met Harrison Campbell?” Zolf didn’t immediately launch into a thousand more questions, but Hamid got the distinct impression it took quite an effort of will.

“Yes, just before he wrote that  _ Hearts of Fire _ business,” Bertie gestured, jogging his own memory. “Some people have told me that he based the hero off me, y’know. It would be...Mr Smith? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine, I choke on my beer all the time, it’s a problem,” replied Zolf. “Er, have you read that series, Bertie?”

“No, no, but I’m sure it’s a faithful recreation of my really marvellous personality and stature, what?”

“Something like that, yeah,” replied Zolf, aiming an open and guileless smile at Bertie’s chin. “Is he going to be reading anything at the talk, Hamid?”

“I think so, yes,” replied Hamid, who suspected he was reading Zolf’s expression far more accurately than Bertie and felt apprehension uncurl in his stomach.

“Excellent, excellent!” Bertie toasted the air. “Then it will be an excellent night, yes? We can all go and hear my magnificence immortalised in literature.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Zolf, with a smile that sharpened Hamid’s apprehension into dread.

“How long have you liked romance novels for, Zolf?” asked Sasha’s voice out of the thin air where there should have been an empty chair and some wood panelling.

The answer never came, mainly because the three already at the table had jumped a combined four feet sideways in shock, and the next half an hour was dedicated to arguing over how Sasha had got there, how long she’d been there, and who had to pay for the subsequent round of drinks since she’d made all of them spill theirs.


	6. Meteorology

Tjelvar felt the bicycle crest the hill, pick up speed, and send the wind flicking through his hair. He resisted the urge to scream.

“Almost there, Tjelvar!” said Edward cheerfully over his shoulder as gravity did what it did best and the bike went freewheeling down the country lane.

“Watch the road!” Tjelvar yelped, feeling his heart leap into his throat as Edward looked forward again just in time to steer them around a sharp bend. A moment later the rest of his internal organs joined it as Edward rattled over a deep pothole.

_ A relaxing trip to the coast, riding pillion on a bicycle. It all seems so idyllic until you pencil in Edward Keystone doing the actual cycling. _

Once again, though, Tjelvar had no one to blame but himself.

It hadn’t been a good day. Some days everything came easily, the information leaped off the printed page and slotted itself neatly into an available space in his thesis. And then there were days like this one, where reading even a sentence seemed to take every iota of energy he had. Around teatime, Tjelvar had caught himself reading the same paragraph three times over and finally gave it up as a bad job. His time was running out before his next meeting with his thesis advisor and he had twenty hours of shifts at the cafe over the next three days, but it just wasn’t working. Tjelvar decided he needed some fresh air and found a spot of autumn sunshine just outside the library to stop a minute and take some.

“Tjelvar!” The voice cut across both the courtyard and Tjelvar’s burgeoning headache. He turned and met Edward’s eye in time to see his smile fall.

“Edward, hello,” Tjelvar forced some enthusiasm into his voice but it must have come out wrong because Edward’s frown deepened. “We didn’t have a tutoring session scheduled, did we?”

“No, that’s not til Tuesday next,” replied Edward, stepping a little closer and lowering his voice. “Are you all right, Tjelvar? You don’t look right.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” sighed Tjelvar. “It’s...I have a lot to think about, that’s all.”

Edward’s mouth twisted slightly. “I usually go to the sea if I’m feeling like that,” he said, slowly, eyes playing across Tjelvar’s face for his reaction. “It helps. I could take you? If you like?”

There were several dozen reasons why that would be a bad idea, not least the fact that this was a suggestion from _ Edward _, a man who, if he fell out of a boat, may have had trouble finding the water.

“That sounds...wonderful, Ed,” Tjelvar said. “Are you sure it’s no trouble, though?”

Edward’s face immediately lit like sunlight glinting off waves. “Wicked! I’ll get my bike. If we go now, when we get there the sun will be setting over the sea, it’s dead pretty.”

They did, despite the adrenaline still prickling Tjelvar’s skin, arrive in one piece and good time. Edward pulled up at the harbour wall and set about securing his bike in the shed. Tjelvar wandered slightly further away, resisting the urge to put his hands on his knees and hyperventilate.

_ Look at it this way, _ he told his hammering heart. _ At least the headache’s gone. _

“All done,” said Edward, tucking a padlock key back into his pocket and walking over to Tjelvar. “You’re looking better already!”

“Must be the fresh air,” replied Tjelvar, attempting an earnest smile and feeling his legs wobble slightly. Edward didn’t apparently notice, judging by the strength of the clap to Tjelvar’s shoulder.

“Brilliant!” Edward beamed. “And we even made it in time to see the...sunset...oh.” Tjelvar turned to follow Edward’s crestfallen gaze.

Behind them, the seafront stretched away, lined with quaint B&Bs and an old-fashioned and pretty promenade, all practically deserted in the off season. A gull cried overhead and a gently rising swell sent white-capped waves against a pebble beach. The sea stretched out, dark and mysteriously green, the colour deepening towards the horizon…

...where a band of looming, inky clouds rolled across it. From across the water came the distant rumble of thunder. 

“I don’t know that we did, I’m afraid,” replied Tjelvar, his half-smile genuine for the first time that day. Edward, on the other hand, looked like someone had cancelled Yuletide.

“I’m so sorry, Tjelvar - I thought - I like to come and watch the sun on the sea, it always makes me feel better, I thought it might help, but -” Lightning flickered through the clouds and they both watched as it shimmered eerily on the roughening water below.

“You know, I think it already has.” Tjelvar glanced at Edward, trying not to notice the straightening of his shoulders or the ill-hidden hope on his face. “Maybe the storm will burn out before it hits the shore and we’ll see that sunset after all?”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe,” Edward straightened up all the way. “D’you want to...take a walk?”

It turned out to be less a walk and more a sprint to the nearest shelter. The clouds had been moving faster than they had reckoned and before they’d gone for more than five minutes, the heavens opened. The rain fell in such thick, heavy drops that it closed around them, sending ricochets as high as their knees and veiling everything further than a few metres away. They ducked under the wide stone eaves of a building (the lifeboat station, Tjelvar later discovered) and found a bench there to collapse on, making quiet squelching noises as they did.

“I wasn’t expecting to go swimming today, but…” said Tjelvar and Edward giggled. It had barely been funny, but something about the way their breath clouded and dissolved into the rain-chilled air meant Tjelvar joined in and suddenly they were silly with it, propping each other up as the storm got gradually closer.

After a quick dash to the nearby row of shops for supplies (including a thick blanket, a cold drink and a very hot bag of chips), they settled back on the bench in their sheltered eaves and watched the heart of the storm break over their heads. Tjelvar speared a vinegar-soaked chip with a little wooden fork and felt amazingly, inexplicably comfortable. Not physically - he was soaked through and would have been getting cold if he hadn’t been huddled under the blanket with Edward, who was apparently a small furnace. The waves began to crash and the thunder rose from an ominous rumble to sky-splitting cracks; Tjelvar breathed in the salt-and-wet-earth perfume of the storm and thought, _ ahh _.

“Well it’s not quite a sunset,” said Tjelvar, picking his moment between thunderclaps. “But thanks for bringing me, Eddie. Do you come here often?”

“Yeah,” replied Edward, watching a fork of lightning hit the sea. He counted quietly under his breath - the thunder broke, loud and low, just before he reached seven - that had been less than a mile out. “The sea’s nice, you know? Always changing. Something to watch if I’ve got something stuck in my head, like.” Tjelvar looked sidelong at Edward who seemed in turn lost in the shifting patterns of rain on the water. “Sometimes I skip stones, like I used to with my brothers. Don’t think it’s calm enough now, though.”

A wave hit a rock offshore and the spray leaped high into the threatening sky.

“Doubt it,” replied Tjelvar.

Thunder rolled above their heads.

“It was my big sister who taught me to skip stones,” said Tjelvar. “She’d take me down to the water on clear days and show me how it was done.” Tjelvar smiled at the vista in his mind, of cold, clear waters beneath mountains gilded with the first light of morning. “I still remember how proud I was the first time I managed to skip one. Of course, Hanne did accuse me of cheating.”

“Why?”

“The fjord was frozen over when I did it.” Edward laughed, jostling Tjelvar.

“She sounds good, your sister.”

“She is,” Tjelvar replied. “Never understood me - always called me weird for liking books more than fishing. She still helped me carry everything I wanted back from the village library every week. She’d like you, I think.”

“I’d love to meet her!”

“If she’s ever over here, I’ll make sure you do. Neither of us have made the trip for a few years now, though. She runs the fishing boat with Dad and neither of us really have the time or money to make a visit.” Tjelvar thought of the jar of Bertie’s money, tucked behind an enormous tome on neolithic cultures and felt for a moment like he’d swallowed something burning. He glanced at Edward. Glanced away again quickly. “Don’t look at me like that. We talk most weeks on the phone. It’s not perfect, but we’re both doing what we want with our lives.” Tjelvar could feel Edward’s eyes still on him, gentle and consoling. There were words building behind that look that threatened to pull things out of Tjelvar’s heart, and he did the only thing he could think to - changed the subject.

“How about you, Ed? How many brothers do you have?”

“Oh, er, yeah, I’ve got two. I see them most breaks, though.” The light seemed to have gone slightly from Edward’s face.

“Do they ever come and visit you?” Tjelvar watched Edward look down at his fingers and got an awful feeling like he knew the answer.

“No, not really. But then they’re busy.” Edward shrugged, like it was of no consequence. “Fred’s gonna be Duke one day so he’s learning to manage the estate, and Henry likes hunting and stuff? So I s’pose that takes up a lot of his time.”

“And your father?”

“Oh, well, he’s a Duke, so… He has lots to do so he can’t always… I’ll see him at Yuletide, anyway.” Edward said it with all the enthusiasm one might speak of getting a root canal.

“I see,” replied Tjelvar, and wished he didn’t. This had been all a lot easier when he could simply write Edward off as a particularly dense posh twit. He _ was _ a posh twit. It just wasn’t all he was and to his own horror, Tjelvar had grown fond of the rest of him. He wondered, vaguely, when that had happened. He certainly hadn’t been paying attention when it had.

“They all sound...like they’ve got everything figured out. What about you, Eddie?” Tjelvar leaned a little closer.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what’s a son of the Duke of York going to do with an Ancient History degree? What have you got planned for the future?”

“Oh, well, I don’t...really know?” Edward’s brow creased slightly as he stared into the rain. “My father said I should have some kind of degree and, yeah. I didn’t really think beyond that.”

“Okay, what made you choose history?”

Edward began to fidget with a loose thread on his trousers and didn’t look up again. “Dunno.”

_ Meaning he didn’t choose it _, thought Tjelvar.

“Well, you’re not the worst student I’ve tutored,” said Tjelvar, raising his voice cheerily over a thunderclap that seemed to split the sky and wondering if that was an outright lie. “I’m sure you can be whatever you want to be,” Tjelvar finished, placing a slight but hopefully subtle emphasis on _ you _.

Edward grinned at him, slightly soft around the edges as the lightning glimmered in the blue of his eyes.

“Well, I like the idea of being a paladin,” Edward said, lowering his voice until Tjelvar almost couldn’t hear it over the rain. “I think...Apollo. I’d like to be a paladin for Apollo.”

_ He’d look fantastic in gold _ , thought Tjelvar. _ Then again, he’d look fantastic in most things _.

“I think there’s a chapter of the Church on campus,” said Tjelvar. “Have you gone and talked to them about the entry requirements?”

“Oh, I, I, I’ve been trying to focus on my studies?” replied Edward, and Tjelvar did him the favour of keeping his eyes on the lightning striking the sea further down the coast, as the storm began to drift south. “I didn’t really have time and I don’t know...well, I’ve still got a year and a half until I graduate. Which I will, now you’re my tutor, right?”

“Right,” replied Tjelvar, laughing a little. “Still, Eddie, it’s never too early to start planning your future.”

“My future,” said Edward, his voice flat. “Yeah.” The silence that followed rang louder than any thunder could. Edward recovered first, turning to Tjelvar.

“Are you going to, like, study for the rest of your life?”

“Oh gods, no - I want to be out there actually finding stuff. Do you know that the whole landscape around Stonehenge was once sacred? For thousands of years, people went there to worship. Came to die and be buried, and no one knows why.” A distant, echoing thunderclap lent Tjelvar’s sentence an altogether unnecessary drama. “It’s only recently the Cult of Zeus got bored of it and are allowing excavations - I want to be out there, doing that. The degrees are just a means to an end.”

“That’s amazing,” said Edward, an unaccustomed solemness on his face. “You’ll be amazing at that, Tjelvar.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” Tjelvar smiled at him, and watched his noble profile as he broke eye contact and looked away. 

The silence that followed was soft, defined for Tjelvar by the gentle increase in the warmth of Edward’s arm pressed against his own and the slow realisation that the steady rain wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. Half an hour or so on, the light began to fail and they set off back to Edward’s bike. They walked this time, reasoning that they were already as wet as people could get, and bickered good-naturedly over who got to have the blanket.

Tjelvar ended up with it, once again riding pillion on Edward’s bike as they pulled up outside Tjelvar’s house. He hopped off, looking up at stars just beginning to peek through rainclouds, and sighed in soft contentment.

“I’m sorry about today, Tjelvar,” said Edward, dismounting and leaning his bike against the garden wall.

“What? Why?” Tjelvar turned to look at him, seeing him tired and slightly defeated. Tjelvar felt a prickle of guilt at allowing Edward to cycle the second half of the ride home instead of simply carrying on after the last big hill.

“I mean - I wanted to - because I really - you’ve been - our lessons have been good! Like, brilliant! And I thought I could help you feel better and instead I just got you wet.”

The complete dismay of Edward’s demeanour probably deserved a gentle reaction but Tjelvar couldn’t help it - he burst out laughing.

“That’s true, you did,” he grinned. “And I haven’t felt more relaxed in months.” Edward looked up, an almost puppyish expression of gladness breaking across his face. He stepped towards Tjelvar, hesitating, and then something (the lingering salt air and ozone, perhaps) pushed Tjelvar forward to close the gap and hug him.

“Thank you, Edward,” murmured Tjelvar as Edward’s hands settled on his shoulder blades.

“You’re welcome, Tjelvar,” came the quiet reply.

Tjelvar hummed then pulled away, saying his goodnights and waving Edward off. He let himself in, going straight to his room and getting as fast as possible into dry pyjamas and his bed. Tjelvar settled under the covers, feeling warmth and sleepiness seep into his skin, and dropped off to sleep, almost entirely untroubled and content.

(Only almost - as Tjelvar snapped off the last lamp, the light glinted off the glass of the jar tucked onto his bookshelf, half-full of crumpled notes and guilt by association).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this picture just makes me :hearteyes:, thank you so much @theLysdom


	7. Game Theory

“Bertie, you’re doing it again,” said Zolf, with the sort of calm that preceded a lightning strike.

“Terribly sorry,” said Bertie, leaning out of the way again. Hamid watched as Bertie slowly extended his elbow into Zolf’s, waiting until the crucial moment to give it a hard nudge.

Onscreen, Yoshi went careening off the side of the Cloudtop Cruise track and Bowser trundled past into first place.

“Bertie!” scolded Hamid.

“All’s fair in love and war,” replied Bertie, smugly.

Zolf, watching his kart fished back onto the track and slipping to third place behind Hamid, said nothing.

Hamid had  _ meant _ this to be an evening in which they could bond as housemates. He had envisioned cooking something together before settling in for a night of games. Maybe the odd drink too, but the idea was a quiet night in, just them. A chance, Hamid hoped, to remind themselves of all of the things they liked about each other.

Instead, Bertie had poo-pooed the idea of actually cooking something for himself. He’d initially proposed demanding his favourite restaurant deliver them a three-course gourmet meal, but had been argued down to pizza, of which they’d ordered approximately three times what they could eat.

After that, Hamid’s carefully curated selection of co-operative board games had been entirely ignored in favour of Mario Kart and enthusiastically sabotaging each other’s races.

A little too enthusiastically, if Hamid was honest.

It had started out brilliantly - Hamid and Sasha were actively terrible, while Zolf and Bertie were a little better, but not so good they were invulnerable to the odd blue shell. Their first races had been raucous, Sasha and Zolf apparently having a side-contest on who could spout the most inventive combination of swear words when things went wrong. Hamid had learned a word or two. Not that he suspected he would ever get around to using them.

_ And then Bertie had ruined it. _ Hamid just about prevented himself adding  _ as usual _ in his own head.

They finished the first cup, and Bertie had said “why don’t we make this interesting?”

“It’s interesting enough already,” said Hamid, and Sasha, behind him, shrugged.

“Come on, you can’t all be afraid I’ll just wipe the floor with you, hm?” Bertie gave them a grin he no doubt thought was charming. “Who’s willing to put their money where their controller is?”

“Bertie,” began Hamid. “I don’t know if this is the time…”

“Well we all know you’ll lose, Hamid,” said Bertie. “But you, Zolf? Miss Rackett? You two aren’t as cowardly.”

Sasha looked from Bertie to her fourth place ranking on the leaderboard, and back to Bertie.

“Surely you can’t all be stick in the muds!” Bertie exclaimed, looking miffed.

“Oh, fine, I’ll put a fiver on the next cup, if it’ll shut you up,” Zolf irritably flicked through the game’s menus. “Come on, you lot, I’ve got a cup to win.”

It hadn’t quite gone Zolf’s way.

Bertie had stopped short of grabbing Zolf’s controller and throwing it across the room, but otherwise had employed every underhanded measure to ensure he’d come out on top. Zolf’s controller had been “accidentally” turned off, his arm nudged as Bertie “stretched”, and had, at one point on Shy Guy falls when Bertie was apparently getting desperate, been pushed entirely off the sofa.

Bertie had come out top on the Flower Cup. Zolf, still picking himself up off the floor, settled back in his seat and said “best of three?”

Zolf, showing a level of guile Hamid wouldn’t have previously credited him with, proceeded to wipe the floor with Bertie in the Leaf Cup. There was nothing quite at the level of cheating, but Hamid was frankly amazed at the accuracy Zolf developed with the game’s various missiles. Bertie got hit with everything from red shells to banana skins and ended up trailing behind even Sasha at one point.

“One last go, Bertie?” asked Zolf when it was done and Yoshi stood atop the podium. Bertie looked down, past Mario and Shy Guy to Bowser, sulking in fourth place.

“Fine,” he said, grimly. “But this time I’m sitting next to you again.”

“Why Bertie,” replied Zolf, flicking through the menu screen to start the next go. “I didn’t know you cared.”

Hamid watched their shoulders tense, watched the determination gather on their brows, and wondered whether this was going to come to blows. He’d known that Zolf and Bertie didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye and that they had a habit of getting beneath each other’s skin. It was partially why he’d thought a game forcing them to work together might have eased the tensions a bit. Instead Hamid was wondering if he’d have to look up instructions on how to break up a brawl.

He might have had to if Sasha hadn’t worked out how to do The Thing.

Hamid wasn’t sure she’d meant to - but she pressed some combination of buttons and Shy Guy vanished, only to pop back out of the circuit’s scenery suddenly enough to make Bertie swerve straight into a wall.

“Hang on, where did you come from?” asked Zolf. Sasha didn’t answer, instead focussing on the controls. Zolf overtook her, Bertie’s Bowser coming up quickly behind her. Sasha dropped into third place, and just as Hamid was about to overtake, she made a hard left turn, vanished, and popped out in first place again.

“Oh, I  _ like _ this game,” Sasha grinned, leaning forward.

The game, apparently, liked her right back. Sasha would fall to fourth place just long enough to gather some of the best pickups, then turn and somehow find the weak point in the game’s architecture that would pop her out into first place. Hamid remained content trailing along at the tail end, enjoying watching Zolf and Bertie try more and more inventive ways to get past her only to be either out-glitched or nerfed with something from Sasha’s now impressive arsenal. Zolf got nudged beneath a falling block in Bowser’s castle; Bertie was sent careening off the Rainbow Road; both got zapped by lightning and then gleefully run over by both Sasha and Hamid.

“Wow! One cup each,” said Hamid, leaning back and looking at the final leaderboard - Sasha had won by a country mile. “Clash of the titans. I guess no one won the bet then, Bertie?”

Bertie, who hadn’t said anything up until this point, muttered something about cheating.

“Oh what, like shoving me off the sofa was fair play?” Zolf turned and glowered. “Sasha won. All right, she used some unconventional methods, but you’re one to talk, Bertie!”

“What? That was just horseplay!” Bertie folded his arms across his chest. “Using codes and glitches unsportsmanlike.”

“You can’t define cheating as “everything I do is okay,” Bertie,” replied Hamid. “Sasha beat all of us. We can have a rematch, if you want to. All cheating allowed.” Hamid gave him a winning grin.

“Pah!” Bertie snorted. “No, thanks. You carry on, if you want to. I’m going to bed.”

The door didn’t quite slam behind him, but the noise it made as it closed echoed in the living room.

“Well,” said Sasha into the silence. “We can play Smash Brothers without him. I’m even better at that, come on.”

She wasn’t wrong and it wasn’t long until both Hamid and Zolf were yelling at her and the game in frustration. The atmosphere relaxed again, except for the fact that every now and again the floorboards of Bertie’s room creaked and Hamid couldn’t help casting a worried glance up at the ceiling.


	8. Nursing

Tjelvar was  _ exhausted _ . His neck twinged every time he turned his head and he couldn’t feel anything but a dull pain from his knees down. His hands were stiff and prickled with little spots of pain from steam burns. His  _ fingernails _ ached. He hadn’t thought he had pain receptors in his fingernails, but apparently he did.

Tjelvar locked the door of the café behind him and let out a yawn that threatened to dislocate his jaw. At least it was over and when he got this month’s pay, he’d undoubtedly thank his past self for working forty hours in four days. He’d probably also be pleased with all the studying he’d done; his thesis was ahead of schedule and his thesis advisor had been very pleased with his progress. Quite what his attitude would be to the many hours of sleep he’d sacrificed to achieve all this, he didn’t know. Right now his eyelids were too heavy for him to have any other emotions.

Still, there was an upside there, too. He had seventeen gloriously free hours until he was next expected to somewhere, and even that was just a tutorial with Edward and Bertie. Tjelvar firmly intended to spend every possible minute between then and now curled up in bed, blissfully ignoring his obligations, responsibilities and duties.

In the meantime, he tried to enjoy the journey back. It was a cold and clear evening in late October, stars shining crisp over the now-silent campus, the scenery of everyday life rendered silver and ethereal by the light of the rising moon. It was oddly peaceful, and Tjelvar found himself taking a slightly more scenic route in order to enjoy it a little longer.

Of course, all his romance was punctured a little as he walked by the student union bar. Tjelvar wasn’t the only one who could recognise a nice night and the beer garden (well, beer patio) was mostly full, looped with fairy lights and dotted with heaters and blankets. It was slightly too early to be rowdy, but it was full enough that Tjelvar suspected it would get there before closing time. He let his eyes scan the crowd as he walked past, idly wondering where trouble might come from.

His eyes slid over Edward and Bertie the first time, only to be brought back as the familiarity of their faces registered like a stone hitting the bottom of a well. Edward was sat next to Bertie, leant into his side, Bertie’s arm flung around Edward’s shoulders. The set of Bertie’s face was mid-brag and Edward was looking up at him as if rapt.

Tjelvar’s stomach turned clenched and the skin at his temples heated.  _ Looks like Bertie got what he wanted  _ and  _ they’re perfect for each other, really _ , scribbled their acid little texts across his mind before he could stop the ugly little thoughts. He caught his breath, disoriented at the sudden strength of feeling, and looked a little harder.

Empty glasses were strewn across the table in front of them, and Edward’s movements were slow and uncoordinated. There was a slight frown on his face, as though he was mildly confused about everything around him. Tjelvar watched as Bertie asked Edward if he wanted another drink, leaning in so close his lips were practically touching Edward’s ear. He saw Edward shake his head, sluggish and swaying slightly, then saw Edward clutch at the table to stay upright as Bertie disengaged and headed to the bar.

_ I see _ , thought Tjelvar. Then,  _ this is none of my business _ , and  _ they’re both adults, I don’t need to interfere _ .

“Evening, Eddie,” said Tjelvar as he pulled up a chair up next to him.

“Tjelvar!” It took Edward a moment to focus but when he did, the smile that broke over his face threatened to outshine every fairy light strung overhead. “How long have you been at the pub?”

“I just got here,” replied Tjelvar, smiling back. “I thought-”

“It’s really good to see you,” Edward leaned forward, trying to put his hand on Tjelvar’s wrist and missing, threatening to pitch forward out of his chair. Tjelvar caught his shoulders, tilted him back upright.

“Steady on, Ed,” Tjelvar kept one hand on Edward’s arm until he was mostly sure Edward wouldn’t immediately fall over again.

“I think I’ve had quite a lot to drink,” said Edward, turning a puzzled frown over the small forest of empty glasses on the table. “Can’t properly remember.”

“You might be right there,” replied Tjelvar, still smiling. Bar the trip to the coast a few weeks ago, he and Edward didn’t see each other socially outside of the tutoring lessons, but Tjelvar had never got the impression that Edward was a heavy drinker. “Maybe you should call it a night? I can walk you back to your place, I’m headed that way anyway.” He wasn’t and it was twenty minutes out of his way, but something told him the alternative would see Edward sleeping it off in a bush somewhere.

“Yeah...yeah, that would be great. I’ll just get my…” Edward looked behind him, then down at his own torso. “Did I bring a coat?”

“I don’t know - hold on!” Tjelvar jumped to his feet, needing both hands to help Edward navigate the journey from sitting to standing. He ended up with one arm wrapped around Edward’s waist, pulling the other man’s weight against him to keep him steady. Edward gave a satisfied little hum and tilted his head to rest against Tjelvar’s shoulder.

“Er, Eddie…” began Tjelvar, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Stornsnasson?” Bertie stood on the opposite side of the table, face blank and tight, a drink in each hand. “Didn’t expect to see you out. I thought you bookish types fainted at the smell of alcohol or some such.”

“Quite, Bertie,” replied Tjelvar. “As it is, I’m not stopping. I merely wanted to ask Edward here a question about his upcoming essay, and then decided we’d walk back together as we’re both going that way.”

“Ah, see, I think you’re wrong there.” Bertie took a small step forward and lowered his voice to a purr. “I’ve just bought Ed another round. Which he’s going to sit down and drink.”

“Oh.” Edward seemed to shrink a little into Tjelvar’s side.

“I’m sure that’s very kind of you Bertie, but I think Edward’s had enough.” Tjelvar kept his stance relaxed, his face open and polite, and his arm very firmly wrapped around Edward.

“I don’t think  _ you _ get to say that, Stornsnasson.” Bertie was beginning to turn an interesting shade of puce.

“Very true, Bertie.” Tjelvar turned to Edward, giving him a gentle squeeze as he did. “Edward, did you want another drink?”

“No, I don’t think I did.” Edward’s voice was quiet, slightly slurred at the edges, but firm.

“I see,” said Tjelvar, voice still even despite the tightening of his free hand into a fist. “And would you like to go home now?”

“...yeah, yeah I do.” Edward stepped back, just a little, from the table and Bertie.

“Perfect. I think that settles the matter?” Tjelvar smiled genially at Bertie.

“Now see here, young man…” began Bertie, fury building like thunderheads on his brow.

“Might I suggest this is a better conversation for the morning light, Bertie?” Tjelvar cut him off. “Not really sure having this conversation, on this patio, at this particular moment, would do much for the MacGuffingham public image, hmm?”

There was a long moment in which Tjelvar braced himself for a faceful of alcohol, fist or perhaps both, until Bertie subsided slightly.

“Perhaps not.” Something that might have been a smile and could have been a snarl appeared on Bertie’s face. “I’ll see the both of you tomorrow for a tutorial then, shall I?”

“No, Bertie, I don’t think you will,” replied Tjelvar. “I think I’ve come to the end of all I can usefully teach you, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t - I’ve paid you, you have to -” Bertie stuttered, failing to find the words to express his sheer outrage at being told “no.”

“I’ll make sure you have an appropriate refund by the next post,” Tjelvar’s smile remained plastered to his face. “That’s only fair. Goodnight, Bertie.”

Tjelvar was tensed as he steered Edward out of the pub, weaving between tables and chairs and expecting a fist or bottle to catch him before he could get away. But then they were out and around the corner, the noise and lights of the pub fading into the blessedly quiet night around them, and Tjelvar finally let out a sigh of relief.

“Where is it that you live, Eddie?” asked Tjelvar, a few minutes later. He knew Edward lived in the halls at the eastern edge of campus. He also knew the interlocking blocks, streets and avenues were an innavigable warren to anyone who didn’t live in them and to most people who did.

“Er - that way,” replied Edward, gesturing vaguely forward into the darkness. Edward stopped, looking around. “Or...could be that way? Um, you find it by going...down that street, then you turn a couple of times and stop when you see the interesting tree. And a bush. The bush isn’t interesting, though.”

Edward looked apologetically at him. Tjelvar shrugged.

“Never mind. I’ve got a sofa you can sleep on, come on,” Tjelvar turned them around and began the long walk home.

For all Edward stumbled every third step and Tjelvar watched his plans for a lazy morning evaporate, it wasn’t that bad. He felt, he realised, a whole lot better. Whole sections of his mind that had been, apparently, dedicated to worrying his...arrangement with Bertie were suddenly instead focussing on unclenching his jaw and loosening the set of his shoulders. It had been weighing so heavily on his mind recently that to have finally cut it off made him feel almost weightless.

Almost, because it had come to this, to Edward nearly too drunk to walk and propped against him, before Tjelvar had finally listened to his better instincts.  _ It should never have got this far _ , he thought, adjusting his grip on Edward’s waist.  _ I should never have let it happen like this _ .

“You’re really amazing, you know that,” said Edward, breaking through Tjelvar’s accusatory introspection.

“Thank you?” Tjelvar blinked. Edward’s sudden praise was at such odds with the contents of his own head that he had no other idea of how to react.

“You’re just, brilliant, you know. Like, so clever! A genius! When you talk about stuff, it actually stays in my head. Amazing!” Edward did his best to grin at Tjelvar, but the act of turning his head sent him stumbling and Tjelvar almost went with him.

“I’m glad you think so, Eddie,” Tjelvar smiled, steering them back on course and getting Edward’s feet under him again. “I’d hate to think I was boring.”

“No! Never!” Edward shook his head vehemently. “And you’re, like, nice? You’re really lovely to me and that’s great.”

The irony hit Tjelvar like a punch to the gut and he winced. Edward, still smiling blithe and unfocussed into the middle distance, didn’t appear to have noticed.

“It’s just common courtesy, nothing out of the ordinary.” Tjelvar cleared his throat and avoided looking at Edward’s face.

“Well no one else talks to me like that,” Edward shrugged. “So you’ve got to be pretty special.”

Tjelvar didn’t have an answer for that. What could he say, short of revealing everything and watching Edward’s image of him shatter? He probably owed Edward that honestly, but in glancing sideways he caught a soft smile on Edward’s face and the thought of watching it crumple into hurt and anger set a chill in his gut.

“What’s your place like, Tjelvar?” asked Edward, apparently not noticing the sudden slump in Tjelvar’s mood. “Is it full of books? Is there like a mini museum in there? I bet it’s like a museum. All this stuff you’ve found. That’s how I think about it, anyway.”

“I’m not an archaeologist yet, Edward,” Tjelvar chuckled slightly as they turned down his road. “I’ve not got any stuff to make a museum from. Not yet.”

“Oh,” said Edward. “Are there books, though? And do you have a hat?”

“A hat?”

“All the coolest archaeologists have hats,” replied Edward firmly, concentrating on not tripping up the uneven stone of the path to Tjelvar’s front door.

“Aha, I’m afraid I don’t.” Tjelvar adjusted his grip on Edward as he fished in his own back pocket for his keys. Edward’s head lolled onto his shoulder.

“You should, you’d look great in a hat,” muttered Edward into Tjelvar’s collar, close enough he could feel Edward’s breath on his neck. “I think you’d look great in anything you wear.”

Tjelvar steered Edward gently up to the door and leaned him against the doorframe, hoping it was far too dark to see the pink spots he could feel creeping across his own cheeks.

“Did I say you’re amazing?” asked Edward, a wide, soft smile on his face, clearly directed at Tjelvar for all his eyes weren’t quite focussing right.

“You did,” replied Tjelvar, unlocking the door and slipping his keys back in his pocket. “But thank you again, anyway.”

Getting Edward up the stairs was tricky - there wasn’t room for Edward to walk next to him and therefore Tjelvar couldn’t steer him properly - but eventually Tjelvar pushed the door to his own room open and sat Edward on his bed.

“This is your room?” asked Edward, looking around with interest. “It’s nice.”

“It needs a tidy,” said Tjelvar, repeating words he’d said to himself every weekend for the last ten months and had yet to act on. True, he knew pretty much where everything he needed was, but he also suspected an academic filing system should rely a little less on dividing available work surfaces into general themes and just piling stuff in them.

“It’s nice though. Suits you.” Edward’s eyes scanned from the Side Table of Pre-War Carthage to the Desk Chair of the Second Punic War.

“I’ve got a camp bed somewhere, I’ll just set it up for you,” said Tjelvar, utterly out of ways to gracefully accept compliments. 

“Okay!” Edward flopped backwards onto the duvet, gazing at the posters of hieroglyphs and temples and tilting his head trying to pick out the titles of the books on the bookshelf.

Tjelvar ducked out of his room, hunting through the airing cupboard for the inflatable mattress and spare pillow he knew were in there. He wondered if it was appropriate for them both to sleep in the same room, considering the events of the night, then decided leaving Edward in the living room to surprise and be surprised by his flatmates would probably be worse. Some of them were  _ morning people _ and Edward didn’t deserve to be woken at six by someone making their coffee.

It was a moot point, in the end, because when Tjelvar walked back into his room, Edward was snoring gently, still fully clothed and horizontal to the pillows.

_ Oh well _ , thought Tjelvar, picking out a book and settling in the enormous, ragged armchair in the corner of his room.  _ At least he’s comfortable _ .

*

“T-Tjelvar?”

Tjelvar awoke with a crick in his neck and the realisation he’d never quite made it to the inflatable mattress. He blinked, righting himself from where he’d fallen asleep in his armchair, and spotted Edward, sitting up in bed and utterly disoriented.

“Morning, Ed,” he said, rolling his shoulders and hearing one crack. “Ow.”

“How did - I mean, did we - where…” Edward trailed off, one hand settling on his stomach and eyes going wide. A sweat might have broken out on his suddenly pale brow.

“Bathroom’s second door on the left.” Edward took off before Tjelvar had stopped talking.

Edward caught up with Tjelvar about ten minutes later, as Tjelvar was making coffee in the kitchen. Edward looked a little less grey around the gills and sat down at the kitchen table, shooting a glower at the kettle as it reached a noisy boil.

“Here,” Tjelvar placed a cup of sugary coffee and a packet of paracetamol at Edward’s elbow, taking care to do it quietly. “Feeling rough?”

“Yeah,” replied Edward, clutching at both mug and tablets as though they were lifelines. “I dunno how much I drank but. Probably too much.”

Tjelvar hummed, bringing his own coffee over to the table and sitting next to Edward.

“I don’t - um. Tjelvar, how did I end up back here? I remember being at the pub, and then Bertie came up and asked if I wanted a drink, and then it all gets a bit…” Edward’s fingers were tight on the handle of his mug and he didn’t look up from the surface of the table.

“I bumped into you at the pub,” replied Tjelvar, lightly. “We chatted, you decided you’d had enough and wanted to walk back with me, since I was headed in the direction of your place. We ended up at mine because apparently you were so drunk you forgot where you lived.”

Edward looked at him intently and Tjelvar kept his face as calm and amused as he could manage. It must have worked, because eventually Edward smiled back, a line of tension leaving his shoulders.

“You ended up in my bed,” continued Tjelvar. “Because you fell asleep in it before I could set up the air mattress for you.”

Edward laughed. “Thanks, Tjelvar. For the bed and for - well, everything else.”

“Not a problem, Edward.”

Edward drank the rest of his coffee in silence, occasionally glancing up at Tjelvar when he thought he could get away with it. Tjelvar idly scrolled through the news on his phone until Edward decisively put down his mug and cleared his throat.

“Well. I should go.” The statement was firm and Edward didn’t quite seem to know what to do with himself after he’d said it.

“No rush. You can stay. I mean - stay as long as you like. If - you want to.” Tjelvar cleared his throat, wondering why he was suddenly having trouble offering Edward his further hospitality. Edward was already in his kitchen, how hard could it be?

“Oh - well, actually I should shower. And stuff. Before our tutoring session later, like.” Edward shrugged, a little bashfully. “I want to be presentable.”

“Fair enough - although we can skip it for the day, if you’d like?” Tjelvar looked from the bags under Edward’s eyes to his rumpled t-shirt. “No sense in pushing yourself if you’re feeling rough.”

“Oh I - well, I’d like to, you know, see you. Later today. And when I’m not,” Edward gestured at himself, and then stared down at the bottom of his mug.

“That would be...nice.” Tjelvar kicked himself for the expression, but his vocabulary had deserted him. It would be nice. It’d be lovely, especially if Edward was his usual, cheerful , unhungover self. Besides which, he owed Edward a little gentleness.

“Yeah?” Edward brightened.

“Why don’t we have coffee? A-another one. At somewhere other than my kitchen table.”

“That sounds amazing!” Edward’s grin slipped. “Oh but - what about Bertie?”

“Ah...Bertie and I have decided that I’ve taught him as much as I can,” replied Tjelvar, pushing images of Bertie’s possessive arm over Edward’s shoulder back down into his subconscious. “He won’t be coming to any more of our tutoring sessions.”

“That’s...okay then,” replied Edward, nodding and looking like he was doing his best to suppress a smile.

“Okay then, let’s get coffee?” asked Tjelvar.

“Yeah.” This time Edward did grin, although not quite directly at Tjelvar. “Yeah, let’s...I’ll see you later, then?”

“Already looking forward to it, Eddie.”


	9. Creative and Critical Writing

“How do I look?” asked Zolf for the third time in an hour.

“Like someone who really likes romance novels,” replied Sasha.

“Is that good or bad?” Zolf frowned.

“Zolf, you look fine!” _ Of course he looks fine _ , thought Hamid. _ I helped him pick his outfit. _

Zolf shifted in the navy-blue jumper Hamid had selected and lifted a hand to fidget with his beard before he caught Hamid’s look and left it alone. Hamid had spent a lot of time getting the braids right.

“You look brilliant - doesn’t he Sasha? Bertie?” Sasha nodded, smiling as earnestly as she was able to manage. Zolf nodded at her, attempting to smooth a smile across his worry.

Bertie, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d been asked a question at all. He was staring off into the middle distance, muttering _ “Campbell _” to himself at irregular intervals. 

Hamid looked at him and twisted his fingers in worry. Bertie had been in a funny mood lately - he’d come home from the pub one night a couple of weeks ago in a foul mood from which he’d not really emerged. Hamid couldn’t work out what that might have to do with Harrison Campbell, but Bertie was certainly more..._ intense _ this evening. Bertie wasn’t really one for talking about feelings, but Hamid took a step forward, determined to _ try _.

“Hamid?” Sasha’s voice, slightly annoyed. “I said, let’s go sit down. It’s starting.”

“Oh - right - yes,” he said. “Bertie? Are you coming?”

Bertie only grunted and followed as they filed into the auditorium and took their seats.

The auditorium - well, the poshest lecture theatre available, anyway - went a little dim as the presentation got underway. The president of the creative writing society, a genial fellow with curly dark hair, introduced Harrison Campbell and began to interview him about his books.

Hamid felt his attention begin to slide almost immediately - he’d tried to read a Harrison Campbell novel once, out of a wish to be a bit more involved in something one of his housemates liked. Hamid immediately decided to invest in a pair of boat shoes and learn to sail, because it was _ dross _ . Utter pulp. Complete trash. Hamid didn’t quite understand how someone as intelligent and mature as Zolf could like something so awful and had done his best to leave more appropriate reading material about the place. Neither _ Moby Dick _ nor _ Vanity Fair _ generated any interest. D.H. Lawrence’s entire oeuvre (even the sexy bits) had been left entirely ignored. Hamid had resorted to Victor Hugo, but apparently Zolf couldn’t get past all the descriptions of Paris.

Not that long ago, he’d have chalked it up to superior breeding generating superior taste, but that was no longer a satisfactory explanation with Zolf sat next to him, completely rapt. He wasn’t superior to Zolf. All right, Hamid had better taste in clothes, literature and alcohol, but there was something in Zolf’s steady manner that spoke to a depth of understanding and experience that Hamid couldn’t claim. And then there was Sasha, who was bored by books in general with the notable exceptions of those that contained instructions on how to make something emit green smoke and then explode. But she’d taught Hamid how to cook and how to wash his towels properly and she’d done that just because she’d seemed to like him. All Hamid had to offer her was knowledge of eyeliner (which, in his defence, she’d look excellent in).

Hamid was jolted out of his reverie by Campell getting to his feet. There was a round of applause that Hamid belatedly joined, and then Campbell took his place at the lectern and shuffled his papers. He cast a look around the audience, skimming once over their row before drawing back to Bertie. Campbell’s jaw dropped slightly and Hamid fancied he went a little pale. Hamid’s head turned to the right, his hand halfway out as he moved, waiting to grab hold of Bertie’s arm and pull him back into his seat.

Bertie, however, merely held Campbell’s eye with a grim little smile and the moment seemed to pass as the author cleared his throat, shuffled his papers again, and began to read his prepared excerpt.

Hamid did his best to keep his attention on Bertie, but to his own annoyance he found himself drawn into the narrative. It was several very long miles from what Hamid would call _ real literature _, but… The story seemed to be in the middle of a quest, in which a brave knight was doing his best to rescue a train full of passengers. Only, everything he did seemed to be mostly for the look of the thing and seemed to be actively making the situation worse. There was a bit involving an entire station fleeing in panic that had Hamid cackling along with the rest of the auditorium.

The applause, when the reading was finished, was thunderous. The president called for questions and a forest of hands immediately shot into the air. Zolf’s, however, began twisting his beard anxiously.

“Zolf? Are you okay?” Hamid leaned over.

“Er, yeah,” whispered Zolf back. “Just, er, the questions, y’know.”

“You should ask one,” hissed Sasha in Zolf’s other ear and from the way Zolf flinched, Hamid guessed she’d found the source of his sudden nervousness.

“I don’t - I’m thinking about it, okay?” Zolf shrank a little further into his seat at Campbell picked out the next question.

“I’m sure he’d really like to hear from you,” murmured Hamid encouragingly.

“All _ right _ I do not need the both of you whispering in my ear!” Zolf was so far down in his seat now he was practically lying on it.

“But Zolf...” said Hamid, trailing off as he thought to find a kind way of saying _ he’s just a writer, he can’t hurt you _. Zolf merely shushed them both and sat there fidgeting until the Q&A ended and the hall rose into a standing ovation.

There was a small reception next door, in which people gathered in small clumps clutching plastic glasses full of wine. Hamid stuck to sparkling water - he was sure some of that wine came out of a _ box _ . Campbell was circulating around, going from group to group and the closer he got, the more Zolf practically _ vibrated _ with nervousness.

“You going to ask him a question now, Zolf?” Sasha nudged him.

“Is he coming this way, you think?” asked Zolf, staring directly at Campbell and therefore the one most likely to be able to answer.

“What would you ask him, Zolf?” Hamid had heard that preparation reduced anxiety. He hoped it would, before Zolf got the jitters so hard he started to emit noise. Zolf blinked, sniggered and then turned conspiratorially to Hamid and Sasha.

“You two read the _ Hearts of Fire _ stuff?” They shook their heads. “It was what he read from just now. From what I’ve been able to tell, he started writing those just after he met Bertie. Now, bearing that in mind, does Sir Albert remind you of anyone?”

Hamid thought of the protagonist’s pomposity, his arrogance, and his wildly inaccurate self image. Then there was the flowing golden hair…

“Oh!” he said, only to realise Zolf and Sasha were already giggling. He put his own hand over his mouth. He should feel bad - Bertie was his oldest friend, after all, but really. If Bertie had wanted Campbell to be nicer about him in his stories, he should have behaved better.

“I want to ask if it’s true!” said Zolf, grinning. “I really want it to be.”

“Should we ask Bertie?” Sasha said. “If we find out if they met on a train, then we’ll know.”

“That’s true!” Hamid craned his neck. “Where _ is _ Bertie, anyway?”

Suddenly the dread crystallised in Hamid’s stomach.

“Zolf?” he asked, voice wobbling. “Has _ Bertie _ read the _ Hearts of Fire _ books?”

Zolf went very quiet. “I don’t..._ think _ he has…”

“Yeah, but he’s been in a weird mood tonight,” Sasha was scanning the room, frowning.

“I think,” Zolf said after a moment. “I think we better find him.”

“_ Zolf, _” said Sasha, pointing.

It seemed to Hamid later that the crowd parted in that moment, framing Harrison Campbell, blithely unaware of the fate that loomed behind him, building like a thundercloud, pulling the atmosphere taut in anticipation of its release. In the moment before Bertie upended the punchbowl, Hamid swore time itself paused to catch its breath.

The pink punch hit Campbell’s cream linen jacket like a waterfall, running rivulets through his hair, wilting his exquisitely curled moustache and washing away his pocket square. Campbell spluttered, spun outraged on his heel, and shrank before the sight of Bertie, looming with vengeance on his face and a punch ladle in his hand.

“B-B-Bertie,” he began.

“Oh, don’t mind me, Mr Campbell! Just engaging in a little matter of literary criticism, hm?” Bertie dropped the punchbowl and grabbed Campbell by the lapels.

“I’m calling campus security!” yelled someone from the back. Hamid thought it might have been the secretary of the Creative Writing society.

“Yes! Tell them I’ve apprehended a criminal, hm?” Bertie waved the ladle in the air, then threateningly beneath Campbell’s nose. “A thief!”

“I-I-I have _ never _,” flapped Campbell.

“You did! You confessed in front of all of these people by reading out that disgusting filth, Campbell! You confessed to the worst theft of all - libel!” Bertie thrust the punch ladle up in the air and grinned, vicious and victorious, around at the room. Then, sensing he hadn’t perhaps carried he crowd, he continued. “See, libel is theft! Theft of a man’s good name! Of his honour! And _ you _ , Campbell, have _ stolen my honour _ with the ridiculous tripe you call a novel!”

“_ That’s enough! _” yelled Zolf, barging past Hamid and inserting himself between Campbell and Bertie. Loosed at the lapels, Campbell staggered ungracefully back until he hit a wall. “You stole your own bloody honour by acting like a complete bastard the entire time!”

“This doesn’t concern you, Mr Smith!” Bertie brandished the ladle.

“”Yes it bloody does! I have _ had it _ with you and the _ rubbish _ you spout and your _ ridiculous _ arrogance!” Zolf was almost scarlet with rage. “You act like a complete bastard, then you should expect that’s what people are going to call you. Campbell couldn’t have stolen your sodding honour when you never had any in the first place!”

“How dare you, you jumped up little-” Bertie grabbed Zolf’s jumper, hauling the dwarf off his feet.

“I’ll show you little, you overgrown-” There was a tinny clanking sound and a howl of pain.

“I’ll rip that peg leg right off you!”

“Bertie, no!” Hamid grabbed at Bertie’s wrist, trying to deflect the blow aimed at Zolf’s face. Hamid felt both his hands connect and grip, felt Bertie pull his arm back, and then…

Hamid landed on the drinks table and skidded, sending several half-empty cartons of orange juice tumbling. He didn’t remember being thrown the ten feet between what was now a brawl and where he was. He was quite glad.

As he watched, Sasha caught a blow from Zolf’s melee copy of _ Hearts of Fire _ and stumbled back a few steps and landing hard on her arse.

“Sasha!” Hamid ran up to her, wailing. “What are we going to do?”

“You grab Zolf and I’ll grab Bertie,” she yelled, turning and leaping up on Bertie’s back, wrapping both legs around his torso and locking her arms around his neck. It didn’t have any noticeable effect.

“Zolf,” Hamid flailed, trying to catch hold of his arms, stop him pummelling Bertie. “Zolf stop!” Zolf didn’t, so Hamid ducked beneath his arms and wrapped both arms around his waist and tried to pull him backwards. The effect was a little limited by the fact that Zolf’s waist was wider than Hamid’s grip, meaning Zolf slipped right out of it and Hamid was left tugging on his jumper.

“The big blonde one!” yelled a voice from the other side of the room. “That’s him!”

And suddenly it was over - two burly members of campus security held Bertie by each of his arms and a member of the local constabulary had hefted Zolf right off his feet. Sasha slunk out from behind Bertie, still obviously red in the face, and Hamid finally let go of Zolf’s jumper. There were several holes in the soft blue wool and Hamid’s heart sank.

“Now, are you two going to behave yourselves?” asked the PC, glaring between them. Two equally grudging nods gave her the answer. “Good. Now you, sir, you’re going to come and have a chat with me about a bowl of punch and how it got over a bestselling author. The rest of you,” here she turned and fixed each of them in turn with a stern glare. “Had best be getting back home. Be glad I didn’t report you to the college masters over this.”

They stood in silence as Bertie was frogmarched out of the room.

“Zolf?” quavered Hamid as the footsteps faded away. Zolf didn’t look at him, only growled under his breath and stormed off. Hamid looked at Sasha, who pulled a grim face and shrugged.

_ How are we supposed to share a house now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at Campbell's dorky glasses and Zolf's manbun! Look at them!
> 
> As a reminder, you can see even more at https://twitter.com/theLysdom


	10. Eschatology

Tjelvar looked up as the bell above the door rang and watched a squall of November air blow Edward into the cafe.

“Eddie!” said Tjelvar, smiling. It arrived there unbidden, that smile. As did the little lift in his mood.  _ I’m being ridiculous _ . Edward looked up and smiled back.  _ I can’t help it _ .

“Hullo, Tjelvar,” Edward stepped towards him, then hesitated. “Is-is it all right to drop in on you? I know we didn’t organise it or anything, but…”

“Of course!” Tjelvar cast a quick look over his shoulder - there was no one waiting to be served and not a supervisor in sight. He finished wiping down the table and pulled a chair out for Edward.

Edward settled in the chair next to him, close enough that their knees brushed and Tjelvar didn’t think about what it meant. Which wasn’t a simple absence of thought - Tjelvar didn’t think about a lot of things, from his roommates’ love lives to when he’d last watered the houseplants. But every now and then Tjelvar would lean closer to Edward, perhaps peering over his shoulder at a book and Edward would be distracted for several minutes. Or perhaps Tjelvar would catch his mood lifting the morning of a tutorial. And then he’d have to perform some intricate mental gymnastics to think about almost anything else in the moment. It was exhausting.

There was quite a lot not to think about as Edward shifted slightly closer to him and something fluttered in his stomach. Tjelvar pushed that firmly down and concentrated on the worried set of Edward’s face, and waited. Edward didn’t speak for a moment, looking down at his hands, playing with a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Is everything all right, Ed?” Tjelvar prompted, when Edward had almost unravelled the cuff of his jumper.

“Oh, yes.” There was a beat of silence. “Well...so I saw Bertie yesterday. It was the first time since the pub, you know.” Edward’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“Did he...do something?” Tjelvar’s hand moved towards Edward’s, stopping just before he could grip it. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, he didn’t...he wanted to talk to me.” Edward said each word slowly, as though considering each of them in turn. “Told me he was leaving the university.”

“Good riddance.” Tjelvar noticed Edward’s little abashed smile and gave one of his own. Edward hadn’t wanted to report Bertie for that night at the pub, and Tjelvar supposed he couldn’t blame him. What could he have said except they’d got drunk? Bertie hadn’t done anything other than buy Edward a few too many drinks.  _ And then almost thrown a fit when Edward decided he wanted to leave _ . Tjelvar kept the grim remembrance off his face.

“Yeah, well, he says he’s going adventuring, or something.” Edward barely met Tjelvar’s eyes, still fiddling with his sleeve. Tjelvar placed a gentle hand on Edward’s fingers, stilling them.

“What else did he say, Eddie?” Tjelvar kept his voice soft. “He’s said something to upset you.”

“Well…” Edward sighed, then looked up at Tjelvar with such an expression of honest anguish that it was all Tjelvar could do not to hug him there and then. “He said - he said he’d been trying to-to court me, and that was why he was in our tutorials and that - and that you knew that and you let him because he was paying you.”

Tjelvar felt frost form in his gut and crawl slowly up his windpipe to his throat.

“I told him you’d never, and you were better than that and he said to ask you and I didn’t want to because I know you’d  _ never _ but I felt so weird about it that I just wanted to talk to someone and…” Edward trailed off and smiled, a little wobbly, at Tjelvar.

Tjelvar looked down from Edward’s trusting expression, to where his hand rested on Edward’s.  _ You have no right to touch him. _

“Tjelvar?” Edward’s smile slipped.

“Gods, Eddie,” Tjelvar dropped his face into his hands. “I am so sorry.”

“Tjelvar, what-” Edward went suddenly still. “Was...was he telling the truth?”

“Yes, Edward, he was.” The words burned in Tjelvar’s mouth.

“Why?” The word was a long time coming, giving Tjelvar plenty of time to watch the hurt and confusion blossom onto Edward’s face.

_ Because I needed the money. Because hated being on the breadline. Because I wanted so desperately to see my sister _ .  _ Because I didn’t think it through until it was far too late. _

Tjelvar didn’t say a word of it. Every justification withered in the face of the truth of what he’d done to his student - to his  _ friend _ . 

“Edward, I…”

Edward’s chair scraped backwards and he stood, jaw tight and a hectic blush appearing on his cheeks.

“Thank you for your help so far this term, Tjelvar.” Edward’s voice was stiff and formal. “But I don’t think I’ll be attending any more lessons.”

“Edward, please…” Tjelvar started up after him, trying to catch his elbow. Edward sidestepped, staying out of Tjelvar’s reach. “Eddie, wait!”

“No!” Edward turned, one hand on the cafe door, and when their eyes met Tjelvar almost shied backwards. “I thought you - that we were…” Edward’s eyes were glittering with what Tjelvar hoped was fury, because the alternative clawed at the inside of his chest.

Tjelvar opened his mouth to say something, anything, to keep Edward this side of the cafe door, and had nothing. There was nothing he could say that could explain, excuse or justify what he’d done. There was no way to fix this.

“Goodbye, Tjelvar,” Edward turned, walked through the door, and didn’t look back as it slammed behind him.

Tjelvar stared out of the glass of the café door, staying still well after Edward was out of sight, until he took a breath and went back to work There was still another three hours left of his shift, after all, and several dozen soy lattes weren’t going to make themselves. After he was finished here, there were essays to write and studying to be done - the world kept turning, after all.

For all it felt like it had ended as the door shut behind Edward.


	11. Home Economics

Hamid wiped the last of the dust of the skirting board and straightened up. His back ached and his knees were sore from stooping, but it was a job well done and he was proud of that. Bertie’s room  _ sparkled _ .

Well. Bertie’s old room. Bertie wouldn’t be using it now he’d gone off adventuring.

It was clean now, and as presentable as Hamid could make it. He’d done it alone, and all himself - no magic, no paid assistance, just elbow grease. Sasha had caught a couple of spiders for him, but nothing else. He’d done exactly the same for Zolf’s room, although admittedly Zolf had been around to help for that one.

“It isn’t fair,” Hamid had said, standing at the end of Zolf’s bed and watching him pack his clothes into his suitcase.

“No, it isn’t,” replied Zolf, heavily. “But that’s what money and power gets you.” Zolf sighed. “And also, Hamid, it’s not like I’m blameless. I let Bertie wind me up and then I hit him. Several times. That’s a violation of university rules, so.”

“But - Bertie started it! He’s the one who attacked Campbell!” Hamid’s voice went slightly shrill. “And  _ he’s _ not even been expelled!”

“No, he hasn’t.” Zolf shoved a pair of shoes into the case with significantly more force than necessary. “Thank you for the reminder, Hamid.”

“I’m sorry, Zolf.” No doubt Bertie had somehow spun his attack on Campbell as being provoked by the man’s most recent book and made worse by the public humiliation of having it read out in front of his fellow students. (Hamid had actually read the  _ Hearts of Fire  _ books in the aftermath of that disastrous signing – they were still mostly trash, although he did concede that Campbell did an amazing job of capturing Bertie).

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped,” Zolf sighed, running hands through his hair then turning to look at Hamid where he stood, distraught and drooping. “I’m just...yeah. It is what it is.”

“But...it shouldn’t have to be! Maybe I could ask my, my father?” Hamid tried to look hopeful. “He’s got quite a few friends in the universities, he might be able to-”

“ _ No _ , Hamid. If I get someone rich or powerful to get me out of trouble, how does that make me any better than Bertie?”

“Because you’re not like him! You’re  _ good! _ ”

“And if I do a bad thing for a good reason, does that make it better? No, it means I’ve just done another bad thing!” Zolf snapped his suitcase closed and turned to stare at Hamid. They held each other’s gaze a long moment, before Zolf shrugged and moved to the next box to pack. “Thank you, Hamid, but no thanks. I’ll play the hand I’ve been dealt this time. It’s not ideal, but maybe it’s for the best. I can have some time to myself, to figure out some things.”

“What are you going to do now?” Hamid’s voice was almost plaintive, and he hated it.

“Dunno. Might join one of the Cults. Maybe Poseidon. Always liked the idea of being a sailor.” Zolf straightened his shoulders, and gave an almost convincing smile.

“We’ll miss you.” Hamid willed his lip not to tremble. “ _ I’ll  _ miss you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll miss you too. Just…” Zolf trailed off, before turning to Hamid with a concerned frown. “Do me a favour, and don’t end up like Bertie, alright?”

“What - what do you mean?”

“Just ...remember what we talked about in the pub. About, thinking of other people and stuff. You’re good at that.” Zolf’s eyes met Hamid’s, and there was something close to pleading in them.

“Well, I suppose,” Hamid frowned slightly, not exactly sure what Zolf was driving at.

“Good. That’s...good.” Zolf nodded, then turned back to bundling his bed linen into a steamer trunk. “Come on, chin up. You’ll be just fine, Hamid.”

They’d packed up Zolf’s room, stripping it of everything that made it his, then cleaned it until it was ready for the next tenant. Then, they’d bundled all of Zolf’s things into a waiting cab and, with Sasha standing next to him, Hamid had waved Zolf off. By that point, he'd given up trying not to cry.

Even now, with Zolf’s room filled and another prospective housemate coming to visit, “just fine” was still some way away. But Hamid thought that maybe, he might just see it in the distance.

He gathered the cleaning materials, stepped out of Bertie’s old room, and immediately threw himself against a wall to avoid a speeding stack of books.

“Afternoon, Hamid!” said the books as they went by, revealing a goblin behind them.

“Hi Grizzop!” Hamid waved. Grizzop was the new resident in Zolf’s room. He was currently taking triple majors in Forestry, Astronomy and Divinity, on a scholarship paid for by the Cult of Artemis. To Hamid, that looked much like Grizzop was running some sort of stolen-textbook-laundering-ring and had never, as far as Hamid could remember, been actually seen sleeping. Grizzop would probably get a first in all three of his subjects, if he didn’t collapse from exhaustion first.

Grizzop was definitely odd, but otherwise, he seemed a bit like the perfect housemate, being practical, clean and efficient. Grizzop didn’t much like hugs, but Hamid was sure he could bring him around.

“Alright,” said the shadows to his left, and Hamid almost managed not to jump in fright.

“Hello Sasha,” Hamid replied, willing his heartbeat down to an acceptable level.

“Room all ready?” she asked, fishing an apple out of her pocket and beginning to munch.

“Yes! It’s all done, just in time!” Hamid clicked his fingers, and suddenly there wasn’t dust on his hands or sweat on his shirt. He was, in fact, in a perfect condition to welcome their fourth housemate.

Filling the house again after Bertie and Zolf had left had been hard - most students were already happily settled in and not intending to move again until the summer. Grizzop had been called away from his studies last term to fulfil some duties at the temple of Artemis; now he was back, he needed somewhere new to stay. Hamid had then found an exchange student from Kenya who also needed a room for the next term. Her name was Azu and over email she’d been exactly what Hamid thought the house needed - warm, gentle, and kind. She was coming to meet the three of them and see the room and she’d arrive any minute now.

“You’ll meet her with me, right, Sasha?” Hamid looked up hopefully.

“Of course. Need someone to, like, observe while you’re being all charming.” Sasha gave him a rare grin and Hamid smiled back. He didn’t know what he’d have done without her - a point of constancy in all the change. A very strange anchor, one that constantly jumped out of shadows at him, but it was good to have her.

“Come on then, let’s get the kettle on,” Hamid led the way down the stairs, fussing over cups and pots of sugar, waiting for the doorbell to ring. The kettle clicked off, and as the steam swirled out at him, Hamid took a deep breath. It had been a lot, this term. So much tension and so much change. But that was in the past, now - it was almost Yule, and then the term would be over and with any luck, spring term would be entirely uneventful. Hamid poured the tea, and smiled to himself.

_ It’s all going to be just fine _ .


	12. Divinity

“Tjelvar!” 

Tjelvar should have known the voice, should have recognised the steps as they approached, but he wasn’t expecting to see Edward when he turned, hurrying through the cloisters towards him. Perhaps it was because he’d never expected Edward to ever acknowledge him again, let alone jog to catch up and stop, rocking slightly, next to him. There was a nervous expression on his face and a roll of paper sticking out of his coat pocket.

“Edward,” said Tjelvar, quietly, unsure of what to say. “Hello.”

“Hullo.” Edward looked at him, slightly out of breath and pink.

There was a long pause in which the December wind whistled through the courtyard arches.

“Are you all right, Ed?” asked Tjelvar, when the pause had got a little too awkward.

“Oh! Yes. I’m fine.” Edward smiled briefly and nodded. “Are-are you? Fine?”

“Yes, all fine,” replied Tjelvar, returning the smile gently.

“Good, that’s...good.” There was another silence, stretching long enough that Tjelvar had come up with and dismissed several possibilities of how to break it, but this time Edward beat him to it. “You didn’t call me. Or text me, or anything.”

“Well - no,” Tjelvar shifted slightly, the old guilt spiking. “You told me goodbye. I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“Oh. Right.” Edward couldn’t quite meet his eye, until his wandering gaze spotted the paper in his own pocket. “Wait - I wanted to show you this.” He pulled the cylinder out of his pocket and thrust it at Tjelvar.

It turned out to be an essay, marked and bearing a decent grade. Not  _ good _ , necessarily, but solid, and the marker’s comments were encouraging.  _ A good grasp of the history _ read one skimmed excerpt.

“Eddie, that’s great work,” Tjelvar looked up, smiling widely at him. Edward grinned a second in return, before remembering himself and staring back at the floor. “Well done,” Tjelvar added gently, handing him the essay back. Edward gave a one-armed shrug, although Tjelvar fancied he could see the beginnings of a smile.

"Well," he said. "It was because of your help, and stuff."

There was a final pause, more loaded than awkward, and then they spoke at once.

“Edward, I never should have-”

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you -”

Edward finally looked straight at Tjelvar and the knot behind Tjelvar’s ribs eased, just a little.

“Tjelvar, I’m sorry I stormed off,” Edward began, waving Tjelvar into silence when he drew a breath to interrupt. “I should have listened to you, I’m sure you had a good reason to...to do what you did and I should have let you say it before I just left.” Edward looked at him, half apology, half hopeful.

“Eddie, you had every right to storm off,” sighed Tjelvar, hating that he had to dash that little pleading glimmer. “I could explain to you why I took Bertie’s money, but there’s honestly nothing I can say that could excuse what I did. It was…” Tjelvar looked at Edward, his open face, his bright unsure look. “Unforgivable. I should never have done it and I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Edward, after swallowing hard, his cheeks slightly pinker.

“It’s not fine.” It was Tjelvar’s turn to break eye contact. “No one should treat you like that.”

“No, I suppose not,” Edward’s voice was thoughtful. “But I forgive you anyway.” Tjelvar looked back up at him and saw the determined set of his face, the little nod he gave as though to underline his words, and did his best not to beam.

“If it helps,” Tjelvar said, when his throat was once again clear. “I missed - our lessons. And the, uh, other times we spent together. Quite a lot.” Tjelvar wanted to cringe, unsure why he was suddenly unable to form a sentence without stuttering, but plowed on regardless. “If you’d like, we could pick the lessons up again? Free of charge, I wouldn’t make you pay after everything. If you’d like, I mean I don’t mean that you  _ need _ …”

“Yes,” said Edward, cutting straight across him, eyes glittering. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

“Oh! Well that’s...good. Yes, good.” Tjelvar wanted to say more, but the little bubble of hope expanding in his head seemed to push the rest of his vocabulary out of his ears. They stood a long moment, both grinning, Edward’s face red and the tips of Tjelvar’s ears hot.

“Do you - d’you want to get coffee now?” asked Tjelvar. “Just to catch up? My treat.”

“Oh - well, it should be mine,” said Edward. “To say thank you, for the essay, like. And because I, um, missed you too.”

Edward turned slightly abruptly away and Tjelvar followed. They fell into step, drifting towards the coffee shop.

“We can argue about who pays when we get there,” replied Tjelvar, as they drifted in and out of the crowds on campus in a winter afternoon fast descending into evening. Around them, fairy lights and other Yule decorations began to glitter, Edward began chatting about his plans for winter break, and the steamed-up windows of the coffee shop appeared ahead. It was a strange sort of serenity, drifting through the café door and talking about nothing much at all. It was as though everything outside of the present, every other weight and worry, was held in a distant balance. It would all come crashing down sooner or later, surely, but perhaps…

Tjelvar caught Edward’s eye and smiled, before glancing back at the menu board.

...perhaps the moment would last just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! You may have noticed there were some changes as this fic was posted - I'm terribly sorry, I was editing post-publication due to my terrible knowledge of html. Sorry for the inconvenience and hope you enjoyed it anyway!
> 
> One final shoutout to my amazing RQBB partner, who you can find at https://twitter.com/theLysdom - go check her out! Go Go Go!


End file.
